


The Circuit

by stoplightglow



Series: Circuit 'verse [1]
Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Motorcycles, Racing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-04
Updated: 2019-12-04
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:01:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21667867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stoplightglow/pseuds/stoplightglow
Summary: In the world of competitive motorcycle racing, nothing is more prestigious than the Grand Circuit Tour. Americans everywhere gather to watch as the twelve best racers in the nation compete for the title of Circuit Champion and $100,000.Gerard Way is no stranger to the race. When he was a teenager, his name was practically legend - but after disappearing without explanation six years ago, he's become little more than a relic of the past. Now, at age twenty-six, Gerard is back on the Circuit with something to prove.It's Frank Iero's first year on the tour, but he's more than ready. No one has seen a kid blast through the ranks so fast since Gerard Way first appeared on the scene a decade ago. With a cocky attitude and the whole country swooning over him, nothing can slow him down.The stakes have never been so high. Welcome to the Fourteenth Annual Grand Circuit Tour.
Relationships: Frank Iero/Gerard Way
Series: Circuit 'verse [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1755916
Comments: 59
Kudos: 240





	The Circuit

**Author's Note:**

> this is a reworked version of an old thing and i'm still not sure if it's good enough to post, but then nat read it and was like "just post it, coward" (more or less) and i love them so here it is. i stole most of my motorcycle knowledge from ryan graudin’s _wolf by wolf. _thank you, mrs. graudin.__

**MAY 15, 2020**

**SANTA MARGARITA, CALIFORNIA**

**MILE 0**

"At only twenty years old, Frank Iero is one of this year's Grand Circuit Tour racers to watch. He's spent the past year performing at the top of the minor leagues, blowing his competition out of the water and rising in the ranks faster than we've seen in a decade. All of his hard work has secured him a spot on the Circuit this year, and I'm with him now to ask a few questions about the three and a half thousand miles ahead."

The camera zooms out to fit both the polished, middle-aged interviewer and Frank into the frame. Frank is decked out in his gear, black motorcycle jacket clinging to his torso and boots up on the table as he reclines comfortably in his chair. Gerard rolls his eyes even though no one is around to see. Of course the kid can’t even be bothered to act professional for _national television._

The interviewer leans in with a faux-friendly smile. Or maybe it is real, for once — Frank seems to have the whole damn country wrapped around his finger. "Tell me, Frank, are you excited?" 

"Beyond excited," Frank says with a smirk. "I can practically see New York from here." It's a dumb line, obviously rehearsed, but Gerard knows that Frank's countless fans are hanging onto every word.

The interviewer nods enthusiastically. "Can you tell us a little bit about your strategy for the race?"

Frank shrugs effortlessly. "I'm just going to do what I do best. I've been training all over the world for months on bikes just like the Circuit’s models. There's nothing they can throw at me that I haven't done."

"Right, of course. But does anything about this year's tour have you worried? Or any _one?"_

"If I couldn't handle the track, I wouldn't be here." Frank looks right down the barrel of the lens with eyes like honey. Gerard resists the urge to groan.

"I like your confidence," says the interviewer. "But we're friends, Frank, so you can tell me who's really got you nervous. What about Lindsey Ballato? Or Gerard Way, an old pro coming back after six years?"

"I'm not worried about some has-been," Frank answers loftily, no hesitation. "If he was really built for racing, he wouldn't have quit in the first place."

"Bold words, Mr. Iero." Now that it's gotten its gossip, the camera pans until only the interviewer is in frame. The shot tightens in on his face as he says, "Our bets are on you. We'll be right back after a brief message from our sponsors."

Gerard jams the power button on the remote. The screen goes black. He throws the remote blindly behind him and hears it hit the headboard with a _crack._ Where had the sportsmanship gone? When had it become acceptable to trash talk your opponents with talk show hosts? If Gerard didn't have so much to prove, he would _never_ race alongside ego-driven fucks like Frank Iero. Kids like him are only in it for the fame and the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Disgusting.

He glances at the abused remote behind him where it lays abandoned on bleached hotel sheets. The room is too quiet now without the white noise of the television, but he's sure that every channel is filled with nonsense about the race. Gerard doesn't want to listen to interviews, statistics, or an expert's opinion on each competitor's strengths and weaknesses. He can evaluate that for himself, and he can do it better than anyone sitting on their ass in a newsroom ever could. Those skills were what made him a champion.

He hadn't chosen to stay in the racer's hotel. The Circuit had sent him a confirmation letter with a room key inside weeks ago — they always booked every suite so racers could mingle with one another and size up their competition. But that had never been Gerard's style. An open bar and flashy introductions aren't the way to win the tour. A good night's rest is.

God, maybe he _is_ getting too old for this.

*

Fifty-one weeks out of the year, Santa Margarita, California, is a mellow, sun-bleached little town tucked safely in between the chaos of Los Angeles and San Francisco. But three-fourths of the way through May, the petite place becomes one of the most watched spots in all of America. Reporters, cameras, and crew show up en masse to try and sink their teeth into the action on California State Route Fifty-Eight; the fateful beginning of the Grand Circuit Tour.

Gerard, honestly, is over it. The lights and the buzz don't dazzle him the same way they did when he was sixteen; they can take his photo _after_ he wins the race. Until then, he's got a job to do.

He checks out of the hotel with his jacket zipped up, helmet tucked under his arm, boots on tight, and gloves sticking out of his back pocket. That's all he'll need until he gets to New York.

Even though the hotel staff promised they'd take care of her, Gerard still stops by the parking deck to say goodbye to his cherry Harley-Davidson. She's not as fast as the Circuit bikes, but she's a hell of a lot classier, and Gerard loves her more than anything. But she's already done her part. She'd gotten him from his house in Los Angeles — a place he hates, unfortunately deemed America's racing capital, so he can't stay away — to this little town. He's going to miss her.

A sleek, black limo is waiting on the curb for him when he's finished. He stares blankly at it. Surely, refusing the Circuit's swanky hotel room would send the message that the luxuries aren't necessary — but as the chauffeur emerges to open the door for Gerard, he knows that it went right over their corporate heads. "Thanks," he mumbles anyway as he settles into the plush seats. It's an awful lot of space to be alone in.

The closer they get to the starting line, the lower and lower Gerard sinks in his seat; while the cameras are more likely chasing after someone with a younger face and a prettier story, it never hurts to be careful. He can hear the reporters over the limo's engine, shoving a microphone in the face of anyone who will stand still, and it makes him grit his teeth. "Can you turn on the radio?"

"Sure thing." The driver's voice is gruff like he'd smoked a whole pack this morning. He sounds like someone from home. "AC/DC okay?"

Gerard grins. "Perfect."

*

This, Gerard remembers, is the worst part of the whole damn race. Not the bugs in your teeth, the unbearable heat, or the never-ending leg cramps — it's _this._ The _formalities._

"Hello Santa Margarita, and welcome to the Fourteenth Annual Grand Circuit Tour!" The announcer's voice is loud and grandiose. Gerard shifts on his feet, wishing for an end to the bullshit even though it’d just begun. Even if he didn't know their faces from watching the tour on TV for the past six years, Gerard could tell which racers standing in line with him are veterans just from their expressions. Mirrors of his: bored, unimpressed, and wanting to get the fuck on with it already.

"Today marks the beginning of America's greatest race: the twelve best motorcyclists in the nation will be tested on nearly three and a half thousand miles of asphalt to find out who is the toughest, the roughest, and, of course — the fastest."

Three thousand, three hundred and fifty-five miles. The number alone kicks Gerard’s heart into fourth gear.

"As always, the Circuit's rules remain. Totals are calculated based on how long each racer takes to complete a leg of the tour and cumulative times are to be posted on all official scoreboards. No roughhousing, no weapons, no sabotage, and no outside technology or equipment are permitted. Violating those rules or causing deliberate harm to any other racer will result in a time penalty, suspension, or expulsion from the Circuit."

Gerard's blade grows cold where it's hidden inside his boot. Still, he doesn't regret it; it's tiny, inconspicuous, and anyone who has run this track before would do the exact same thing.

"Competitors, please step forward at this time." All twelve of them do, carefully timed paces leading them to where a dozen shiny, silver Circuit bikes idle in a row. They’re the kind of machines that are made for television, polished to perfection and branded in a swooping font. Technically speaking, they are impeccable, though Gerard has some qualms about the clunkiness. He prefers a sleeker ride — Circuit bikes barely fit inside the strict weight parameters for monetized competitions. He knows that most of that bulk is in the fuel tank, though. He’ll be grateful for that later. "Once your name is announced, please mount your bike and wait for my cue."

"Victoria Asher, ranked top three in the twelfth and thirteenth annual tours." The crowd claps politely. Vicky's hair is different than it had been during the last race, short and blonde now, but Gerard recognizes her features. She's a spitfire; she rides fast, but her temper has cursed her with time penalties in the past.

"Lindsey Ballato, victor of the Eleventh Annual Grand Circuit Tour." The announcer ends his introduction there, but Gerard knows that there's much more to the story; even when he hadn't been racing, he'd been watching. Taking notes. Getting ready. Lindsey hadn't just been the victor of the eleventh tour — she'd been the Circuit's first ever female winner, and she'd fought tooth and nail to get there. She rides like a demon and has the tenacity of a bulldog. If Gerard has any real competition out here, it's her.

"William Beckett, newcomer." Gerard squints at the boy. He looks young, gawky, but still more of an adult than Gerard had been when he had started.

"Lynn Gunn, newcomer." Out of everyone, Lynn appears to be the most nervous. Her foot catches on her bike as she tries to get on it, but she recovers before she eats asphalt. Gerard grimaces.

"Andy Hurley, newcomer." Even though Gerard hasn't seen his face on television, he knows that name. Andy is one of a new kind of racer on the Circuit: someone who didn't work up through the ranks traditionally to obtain a spot on the tour. He's a participant in an unorganized (in other words, _lawless)_ form of the sport who only ended up here through last-minute qualifiers. The nasty smile on his face makes Gerard's gut twist.

"Frank Iero, newcomer." If Gerard wasn't surrounded by cameras, he would definitely roll his eyes. There's no point in even bothering to announce Frank's name; everyone already knows who he is. As a testament to that fact, the crowd erupts into hoots and hollers, clapping louder than they had for anyone else. Frank eats it up, mounting his bike smoothly and waving to the masses.

"Gabe Saporta, newcomer." The following applause is pathetic. "Patrick Stump, newcomer. Joe Trohman, newcomer. Brendon Urie, ranked fifth in the thirteenth annual tour." The names rattle off faster as the crowd grows impatient. Gerard knows those first two only vaguely. They're a part of Andy's crowd. Brendon, on the other hand, can be spotted on t-shirts more often than during actual races; the guy is infamous for caring more about merchandise sales than, god forbid, actually training. He's a terrible racer, but a great cheater, and another reason why Gerard needs to watch his back.

"Gerard Way, victor of the fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh annual tours."

He'd known what they were going to say. He hadn't expected to be treated any differently. Still, that story seems so incomplete. Gerard isn't just a string of ancient victories.

With confidence, he swings a leg over the side of his motorcycle and plants both feet on the ground. It's only in the places that the cameras can't see that his nerves show — tongue pressed against his front teeth, fingers gripping the handlebars so tightly that his leather gloves feel like they're about to split.

He's not sixteen anymore, he reminds himself. Now, he's ready.

"Pete Wentz, newcomer." In the back of his mind, Gerard categorizes him with Andy's rogues. But more importantly — he's the twelfth name.

"Racers, take your marks!" The fans in the stands and by the side of the road cheer as the dozen of them fasten their helmets and kick their engines to life. Gerard's bike purrs with all the luxury of a new machine, and the sound centers him.

When he's sure that no one is watching, he runs the pad of his thumb over the X on his left wrist where it's hidden just under the edge of his glove. For good luck.

"Get set." The motorcycles rev and roar like wild animals.

Deep breath in, deep breath out. Gerard's heartbeat aligns with the kick of his engine.

"Go!"

Like a flash of lightning, he flies down California State Route 58.

**MAY 15, 2020**

**SANTA MARGARITA, CALIFORNIA ➝ BARSTOW, CALIFORNIA**

**MILE 0 - 260**

The first leg is always tight. All the racers jostle for a spot at the front of the pack, pulling risky moves while they're still well-rested and alert, high off the adrenaline rush. It's inane. In a tour across the entire country, it hardly matters if you roll into the first checkpoint in the lead.

Gerard can barely hear the rumble of his engine over the wind whipping past as he creeps into fifth place. The California sun is brutal even in May and it reflects off of the motorcycles in front of him almost blindingly, making it hard to keep an eye on who's ahead and who has already fallen behind. He'd seen Frank weave his way into first almost immediately, but all the people between them are a mystery. Gerard doesn't mind. Just as long as he stays in the top half, he'll be fine.

On his left side, the asphalt darkens as a shadow slips next to Gerard. He stiffens, shoulders going taut as he watches it out of the corner of his eye. The shadow inches closer.

Sparing a quick look, Gerard sees Joe closing in on him from the side with a crooked expression. Taunting him. Gerard gives himself a mental shake and refocuses on the road ahead, refusing to give Joe the satisfaction of having rattled him. Joe edges closer. Gerard continues unflinchingly on his straight path, his knuckles white under his gloves. Closer. Closer. _Closer._

At the last possible second, Joe veers away. A childish, prideful stunt. He obviously hadn’t considered the risk. If Gerard had the nerve, he could have ended Joe right then and there, snatched the sleeve of his jacket and dragged him off of his seat. Skinned him alive on the hot asphalt for all the cameras to see.

Just as Gerard begins to let out his breath, another form approaches in the corner of his vision; bigger than Joe and rigid in his ascent towards Gerard. It's Andy. Gerard glances left for a way out, but Joe is still hovering there, not close enough to grab but not far enough to pass. Intentionally or not, Gerard is trapped.

Andy advances again. Metal gears and burning rubber close in. Gerard holds steady, pulse rising as he waits for either Andy or Joe to chicken out and swerve away before the three of them end up as stains on the highway — any turn, any jerk at speeds like this and all of them are as good as dead.

He counts the seconds in his head. They'll lose interest. They'll back off.

Then a gloved hand creeps into Gerard's line of vision. He drops his eyes from the road, from where Frank and everyone in between are tearing down the highway, to watch as Andy reaches for his wrist, for his handlebar. He's going to wreck him. Send him spinning off into some unfortunate competitor behind them. One pull, and Gerard's race will be over before it has even begun.

Beside him, Joe still hasn't moved, either oblivious or reckless. Gerard knows he can't smack Andy's hand away without swerving and ending up in a tangle of engines. He looks over at Andy now, trying to gauge when this daring act will end. There are no cameras tracking the trio of them. This isn't for publicity.

Andy's fingers stretch, reaching for the move that will send Gerard spiraling. Gerard does the only thing he can.

The motorcycle's brakes squeal as Gerard pumps them. His wheels waver but he stays upright as he falls back, engine sputtering in protest. Easing up on the brakes, he struggles to downshift as Andy and Joe's gleaming bikes leaves him in the dust.

The racers who had been at his heels leave him a wide berth now, passing in their highest gear as Gerard fights to stay in his second. Joe and Andy are little more than specks on the dusty horizon.

Gerard grits his teeth, trying to shake off the jitters of a near-collision. His bike is crawling; he kicks it up a gear. He's better than this. The mind games aren't new. What matters is moving past them, focusing on the road under his tires and in front of him. Up another gear.

The bottom half is okay too, he tells himself. It's just the first leg.

*

Gerard arrives at the Barstow checkpoint more mentally than physically exhausted. The attendants waiting outside take his motorcycle practically out from under him as soon as he grinds to a halt, locking it up before he or another racer can tinker with it.

Gerard watches his official time of two hours and fifty-four minutes get scrawled across the scoreboard in the checkpoint's dining hall as he scarfs down dinner. Eighth place. The ranking makes his food taste sour. All the numbers are close; even Frank, all the way up in first, is pushing two hours and forty-five minutes. The difference between Gerard and seventh place is a matter of seconds. Still. Gerard knows he can do better.

"Hell of a start, huh?" The wooden chair across from Gerard screeches as Lindsey pulls it out and sits down, her own dinner plate in front of her. Gerard blinks, startled by the sudden company.

"Yeah," he says after a moment. "It was really different than I—” He shakes his head. "Actually, I don't know what I expected."

"A lot has changed since the last time you were around here, I take it." Lindsey stabs a pile of beans with her fork and looks up at Gerard. It's not friendly, exactly, but Gerard can't detect any ulterior motives.

"It's been a while," admits Gerard. "I was probably your age the last time."

Lindsey snorts, mouth quirking up in a smile. "Flattering, but you weren't. I'm a little older than I look. If the stories are true, you were more like—” She levels her fork at William on the other side of the room where he’s leaning in to speak to Gabe and glancing furtively at everyone else. "No, I take it back, not him. Too young. Maybe—” Gerard's eyes follow her fork as she points to Frank, who looks as casual as ever. He's smirking and chatting with a group of racers with his mouth full of mashed potatoes. Gerard is pretty sure that if he watches long enough, Frank’s head will start to expand from all the hot air. "Him? Yeah, him."

Gerard doesn’t bother hiding his distaste, frowning. "Trust me. Even on my first tours, I was never like Frank."

"Oh, come on." She pokes his arm across the table. "No one likes a bad sport."

"Easy for you to say. You're in second."

"That might have something to do with it." Her grin is guilty, but her eyes hold pride. "He's practically a kid, though. It's tough out here when you've got no experience."

"He seems to be doing just fine," grumbles Gerard.

"If I didn't know better, I'd say the great Gerard Way is jealous.” She lifts an eyebrow teasingly. "How about this, okay? You play nice, and I might just let you come in second."

"Generous," he mutters dryly.

"You couldn't possibly expect first with me around. Don't be ridiculous."

Gerard looks past Lindsey to Frank. "Well, better you than him."

"I'm not going to argue with that." She slaps the edge of the table in a show of finality and rises, taking her empty plate with her. "Good talk. See you on the road, Gerard."

"Right," he answers absently, but Lindsey's back has already turned. He eats the rest of his dinner alone, eyes flicking between the first place slot on the board and the cocky son of a bitch currently residing in it.

*

Gerard tosses and turns in his cot. His spine already misses the comfort of a real bed. Around him, he can hear the soft snores of eleven other racers. It's never a good idea to be the first one asleep, Gerard has watched countless people learn that the hard way — but he doesn't want to be the most exhausted one on the road, either.

He just needs to find some peace. A clear headspace. Reaching under his pillow, his fingertips brush up against the dull side of his knife. He wraps a hand around the hilt of it, and it makes his breath come easier.

Tomorrow is a new leg. A better leg.

Frank Iero is going to have no idea what hit him.

**MAY 16, 2020**

**BARSTOW, CALIFORNIA ➝ DENVER, COLORADO**

**MILE 260 - 1,163**

Gerard does a quick headcount the next morning as the bikers line up. Their motorcycles are staggered in accordance with their current rankings, polished and ready to ride, but Gerard only sees eleven of them.

"Hey!" he calls out to Vicky in front of him. She turns and fixes him with a bored look. "Where's Lynn?"

Vicky grimaces and opens her mouth to answer, but someone guns their engine at the same time and drowns out her words. Gerard tries again. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Food poisoning," Vicky yells. "She made the mistake of accepting something from Brendon. Poor thing has been sick all morning."

"Fucking Brendon." Gerard shakes his head.

"I know, it's a shame." Another engine comes to life in front of them. Vicky waits for it to quiet down before continuing. "Normally I'd be glad that there's less competition, but I kind of liked her. She was naive."

"Naive will get you killed out here."

Vicky nods. "Or worse."

A crackle of static interrupts, and Vicky takes it as her cue to turn back around and wrestle her helmet on. Gerard follows suit, waiting for the announcer's booming voice to rain down on them. His thumb finds his X and traces it. It's a good reminder of why he's here. What he's got to prove.

"Leg two!" The announcer proclaims. There are no physical spectators here now, only a recorded message and cameramen. "We will see the best of you in Colorado. Take your marks!"

All the remaining engines fire up, Gerard's included. "Get set!"

Eighth place to first. Gerard breathes in and out slowly, feeling the adrenaline wake him up and grip his heart.

He only has to pass seven racers. Easy.

"Go!"

Gerard goes.

*

The tour's second leg makes the route from Santa Margarita to Barstow seem like a joyride. If Gerard pushes himself, he's positive that can make it under ten hours, but he can already feel the sweat pooling underneath his jacket.

The upside to such a long leg is that it offers Gerard the opportunity he needs to weave through the competition. The hours wear down the other racers until they give in and stop to eat or rest on the side of the road; Gerard blocks out the heat and the headache and pushes on. By the time the highway approaches the curve around the Mojave Desert, he's riding first place's tail.

Though he's only ever seen it at ninety miles an hour, the desert always takes Gerard's breath away. The massive sand dunes and Joshua trees glow in the distance as their spiny fingers reach for the horizon. Without meaning to, Gerard finds his bike leaning towards the edge of the road so he can catch glimpses of the landscape out of the corner of his eye. He shakes his head and refocuses; he can't afford any distractions. Not when he's so close to first.

Soon, he's near enough that he could reach out and tug on the back of Frank's leather jacket if he wanted. Frank's helmet snaps over to him, a death glare no doubt underneath its visor. He twists his throttle and surges ahead, but Gerard is right behind him. He can feel the waves of heat radiating off of Frank like a solid, choking thing. They're neck and neck. But Gerard isn't worried; he knows every dirty trick in the book. Sooner or later, Frank will slip up — and that's all he needs.

He's sure he's found his opportunity when Frank's motorcycle swerves and slows, his boots flurrying as he downshifts. Gerard tenses, ready to overtake him, but then Frank does something that Gerard honestly could not have anticipated — he turns off of the highway entirely, flying down an exit ramp on their right. Gerard's hand slips on his throttle. What the hell is he _doing?_

In such a dry area, there are no looming trees to block Gerard's vision as he watches Frank's glinting figure spill onto a dusty side-road. The asphalt is two-thirds of the way covered in sand and Gerard shudders just thinking about the hell Frank's bike is about to go through. He isn't sure which will give up first; Frank's engine or his lungs. Either way, he may as well have just handed Gerard the prize money.

He grins. He couldn't have asked for anything better.

*

There isn’t a single sign of another racer for the rest of his ride. Gerard’s only view is the vast road as it stretches out in front of him, beckoning him forward like the tide.

When he finally arrives at the Colorado checkpoint, two attendants rush out to greet him. They say something, but Gerard can't comprehend it over the pounding in his head. His knees wobble and nearly buckle as he stands upright for the first time in what feels like forever. Only after he gets his helmet off does he feel like he can breathe again. "Sorry, what was that?"

"Congratulations!" a mousy-haired girl repeats. "Second place. You must be so proud."

"Second?" Gerard pants. "Excuse me?"

"Another racer arrived about half an hour ago." The tall boy she's working with pulls a pair of keys out of his pocket and tosses them to her. She catches them in the air easily, then begins to poke around the dashboard. "We'll take this back for a quick inspection and then lock it up for the night, okay? Dinner's inside whenever you're ready."

"Okay, yeah, thanks," Gerard says distractedly. They turn their backs, but before they can go anywhere, Gerard has to ask, "Half an hour ago? Seriously?"

The boy shrugs. "We were as surprised as you."

Reluctantly, Gerard leaves them to it, taking an uneasy step forward. The walk to the front door of the checkpoint makes his teeth grind together painfully; his legs are still almost completely numb.

The first thing he sees when he yanks open the door is Frank Iero's smug fucking face.

"Mother _fucker,"_ growls Gerard, instantly so infuriated that he forgets about his legs entirely and tries to stride forward. He stumbles, scrabbling to grab the edge of a table before his skull becomes acquainted with the floor. In front of him, Frank has the audacity to fucking _laugh._

"Careful, there. I'd hate for you to mess up that pretty face." He feigns concern, sticking his bottom lip out and blinking at Gerard with wide eyes.

"Don't give me any of that shit. What the hell happened? What did you rig your bike with?" Gerard props himself up and glowers at Frank. He should've pulled the son of a bitch off of his motorcycle when he'd had the chance.

"Only bad racers need to rig their bikes, Gerard." Frank's voice is calm and collected, like he doesn't have a care in the world, and it makes Gerard want to punch him right in the fucking nose.

"You went through the Mojave," Gerard stresses. "I don't know a single champion who could do that without drying up like a raisin. And you just expect me to believe that you _didn't_ cheat?"

Frank points a finger at the television on the wall behind him, and Gerard follows it to see a bald man in a suit reporting on race footage. "See for yourself."

The video in the corner expands to fit the whole screen and Gerard watches with a tight jaw as Frank speeds down the Mojave's haphazard road, expertly avoiding mounds of sand. Gerard can't believe his own eyes. "But your engine—”

"Got a little dirty, but it's nothing that can't be fixed overnight." Frank shrugs smoothly, still staring at himself on the screen. Narcissist. "As I suspected, going through was faster than around. But I'm being so impolite. How was your ride?"

"Fucking peachy," Gerard grits out. "But there's no way you—"

Both of their heads whip around as the door swings open, Gerard's train of thought thrown to the wind as two tired-looking racers stumble into the room, leaning into each other's sides just to stay upright. Frank grins a thousand-watt smile. "Lindsey and Vicky! Who got here first?"

"I did," both girls say at the same time, then turn to narrow their eyes at each other. A silent battle of wills breaks out between them.

After a moment, Lindsey repeats more firmly, "I did." Vicky frowns but doesn't protest. Gerard supposes it doesn't matter; either way, Lindsey's combined time will still keep her in a higher rank.

"What about you guys?" Vicky glances between the pair of them.

"Me," Frank offers before Gerard can get a word in edgewise. "I cut through the Mojave desert and it saved me half an hour."

"Without dying? Impressive." Lindsey's brows furrow. "You didn't follow him, Gerard?"

"He couldn't handle it," Frank's huge mouth says again. Gerard's going to punch that, too.

He raises his eyebrows in a challenge. "Oh, yeah? And who's to say that you didn't just get lucky?"

"I'm not the one around here who needs luck," Frank retorts. "You admitted yourself that no champion could have done that."

"Well, I think _any_ champion could figure out how to rig their bike."

"I did _not_ rig my bike! Just because _you_ can't do it doesn't mean it's impossible. I don't think you realize—”

"Oh my _fucking_ — I don't need you and your oversized ego to tell me what I do and don't—”

"Hey!" Lindsey yells over their bickering. Gerard's mouth snaps shut as they both turn to her, color burning high in his cheeks. The last thing he wants is to seem so immature in front of the competition. "If you two are going to fight, save it for the cameras, okay? I just spent ten hours on a motorcycle, and I'll be damned if I don't get to eat my dinner in peace."

"Right," Gerard says flatly. "Dinner. Yeah."

He sticks around the common area long enough to watch more racers float in and witness his name get chalked into third place under Lindsey. Their combined scores are less than two minutes apart. He's getting closer.

Bitterly, he eyes Frank's new half-hour lead. That's not as close.

Then he takes his plate upstairs with him and eats by himself. Though it's lonely, it's worth it to avoid Frank's cutting glares.

He won't let Frank get in his head. He has a race to win.

**MAY 17, 2020**

**DENVER, COLORADO ➝ KANSAS CITY, MISSOURI**

**MILE 1,163 - 1,767**

Gerard is eyeing the horizon, mentally preparing himself for the six hundred odd miles of road ahead, when Frank waves from two spots up and grabs his attention.

"Hey, Gerard!" he hollers. "Enjoy staring at my ass the whole way!"

Gerard rolls his eyes to the fucking moon. There's no way in hell that he is going to dignify that with a response. Rather, he revs his engine, its roar a better threat than he could ever make. Lindsey turns around to shoot him an amused look. He opts to ignore that too and runs his thumb over the X beneath his glove instead.

This won't be a hard leg. He can handle it, just as long as he keeps his head in the game and makes sure that Frank doesn't pull any more stunts.

When the fuzzy speakers call out, "Go!" Gerard surges forward, trying to shift up to his highest gear as quickly as possible. He's so focused on Frank, on getting up there and showing that punk who's ass is _really_ worth staring at, that he doesn't notice Andy, Joe, Patrick, and Pete sneaking up beside his bike until they're all four nearly on top of him. Instinctively, he lets off of his throttle to try and avoid a collision. It's not until seconds too late that he realizes that had been exactly what they wanted.

They split up and fan out in front of him, forming a barricade of metal across the entire road. Gerard's heart sinks to his boots.

To the left and right, the asphalt drops off into a ground of knotted tree roots that will no doubt tear up his bike. Not exactly ideal. Still, he swerves to the right experimentally. Pete mirrors him immediately. Gerard growls in the back of his throat and steers back to the center of the road.

"Hey jackasses, do you mind?" Gerard's yell is muffled by his helmet. Not a single member of their roguish group turns to look. He knows they can hear him, though.

His feet fidget in frustration on his gear shift — there's no room to speed up without risking all of their lives. He's still in third gear. _Too fucking slow._ But there's nothing he can do about it.

The barricade in front of him holds steady as Lindsey and Frank fly forward to meet the sky.

*

An attendant gladly takes Gerard's bike from him as he rolls up right behind the four menaces. "Welcome to Kansas City! How was the ride?"

"Fine, thanks." Gerard watches antsily as Pete, Patrick, Andy, and Joe leave their motorcycles and head for the checkpoint building's front door, walking in the exact same formation they'd just spent nearly eight hours in. Gerard could have made it in less than seven, goddammit.

He turns to follow them, anger flaring hot under his skin, but the attendant calls him back. "You know, Mr. Way, I actually had your poster on my wall back in the day." He laughs self-deprecatingly. "You were like, a superstar to me."

"That's very flattering," Gerard says absently, still watching the rogues as they throw open the door and disappear. "Now, I really have to—" He turns to say goodbye, just to see that the guy is holding out a marker and a trading card with Gerard's face on it.

He lets out the soft huff of an almost-laugh, and Gerard can hear the nerves in it. "I know you've had a long day, but if you wouldn't mind — my nephew is a huge fan."

Groaning inwardly, Gerard accepts the items. It's not that he minds signing things now and again — though it has been a while since anyone cared enough to ask, he will admit — it's that he needs to follow the four assholes who just tortured him the whole way here before they can slip through his fingers. "What's your nephew's name?" he asks, defeated.

"Uh. . ." The attendant hesitates, looking anywhere but Gerard. "Nico."

"Right." Gerard scribbles out a short message and his signature before handing both the card and marker back. "Tell Nico it was a pleasure."

"Thanks!" He smiles for a second before his face drops. "I mean — yeah. I'll tell him."

Finally free, Gerard leaves the attendant with his motorcycle and strides to the checkpoint. Inside, he looks left and right, but Joe, Pete, Andy, and Patrick are nowhere to be found.

But, of course, Frank is. He grins devilishly. "What took you so long, princess?"

"Not in the mood," Gerard snaps back. Locating a plate, he begins to stack it high with food from the buffet. At least it's still warm.

"You're never in the mood," Frank whines in faux disappointment. "It's only seventh place, don't get so worked up. Besides, your overall time is still good."

Gerard pivots to glance at the scoreboard. It's incomplete, missing the racers behind them, but Gerard is still holding third. Barely. At this point in the race, the gap between him and Frank may as well be a lifetime. "Fucking hell. I'm going to _kill_ them."

"Who?"

"You know who," Gerard answers icily. "I don't have time for their immature bullshit. I came here to _race,_ not to get held back by a bunch of newcomers."

"You've got four more legs. Suck it up." Frank sounds bored now. Because, of course, if it isn't his problem then it doesn't fucking _matter._ Gerard is done taking bullshit today.

"You know what? Fuck you. Some of us are here for reasons more important than fucking fame and fortune."

Something behind Frank's eyes ignites. "Don't talk like you know me."

"Oh, I know you." Now that Gerard has started, he just can't seem to shut up. " _Everyone_ knows you. You're all over every news channel. Every billboard. Every talk show. Frank Iero: America's _fucking_ sweetheart."

"What, like you don't want that? Maybe you should accept that you're out of your prime, old man, instead of blaming it all on me."

"I'm not—" Gerard's skin feels like it's a hundred degrees too hot. "Not everything is about you, Frank."

"But I think this is," Frank spits back. "You've been at my throat since day-fucking-one, and I want you to tell me why."

"This has _nothing_ to do with you. Maybe if you weren't always sitting around waiting for me for me to show up—"

"What, I'm not allowed to be in the _common area_ anymore?"

Gerard glares at him. Frank narrows his eyes right back. The silence between them is heavy and thick.

"Shut up."

Frank scoffs. "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't realize my _breathing_ pissed you off so bad."

"Why do you always have to be so goddamn—" Gerard shakes his head, exasperated. "No. Never mind. I can't believe I'm letting you waste my time."

Frank gestures to the staircase in the corner. "If you want to go sulk alone upstairs, be my guest."

If looks could kill, they would both be dead men. For a few long beats, it's a silent face-off. Then Frank's expression cracks and he hits Gerard with a mocking smirk.

"So, how was my ass?"

Gerard drops his plate into the sink and leaves.

**MAY 18, 2020**

**KANSAS CITY, MISSOURI ➝ NASHVILLE, TENNESSEE**

**MILE 1,767 - 2,322**

It's a game of chicken. This time, Gerard is not going to come out on the losing side.

Pete closes in on his left and Andy on his right, but Gerard holds steady. He knows what they want — to barricade him again, slow him down until his score drops into the bottom half. It won't take much; Frank and Lindsey have already sped ahead, and these four rogues will be right behind them as soon as they're done with Gerard. His heart beats tight in his throat.

Pete snarls something along the lines of, "Scared?" as he shifts even closer, Andy laughing darkly as he mirrors him on the other side.

Gerard glances at both of them in his peripheral vision. Their shoulders are set, no trace of fear. If Gerard were to so much as shift his weight the wrong way, they'd all go down in a terrifying screech of metal — a sound you never forget, even if you walk away from it. Gerard wonders, briefly, if they're really willing to risk their own lives for this.

All he knows is that he isn't.

He reaches for his handlebar brakes, fully aware of what he's about to give up and already hating himself for it, when something truly unexpected happens.

Yards in front of them, Frank throws on _his_ brakes.

Lindsey immediately zooms past him, but Frank doesn't even spare her a second look. Abruptly, he's right in front of them. He turns slightly and flicks his visor up in a move that shouldn't be possible at this speed, let alone so effortless.

"Keep up, Way!" he hollers shamelessly. And then — as the cherry on the fucking top — he actually _winks._ Before Gerard has the time to process and formulate some sort of response, Frank's visor is down again and he's changing gears, leaving them in the dust to chase down Lindsey.

Gerard blinks, not getting it at all — until he does.

In the surprise of it all, Andy and Pete have both gone slack, and Gerard immediately grips his throttle and seizes the opportunity. Pete yells a string of inventive insults at him as he speeds past, narrowly avoiding Andy's hand as it reaches out to snag the back of his jacket. Joe and Patrick try to close in, but it's too late. They're not going to get him again.

Gerard kicks his bike up a gear and revels in the glory of finally being out of their trap. The change in speed makes the wind beat on him even harder, and he loves it, pushing against it like a force to be reckoned with.

He's got some time to make up.

*

Just after Gerard passes the _Welcome to Illinois!_ road sign, the rain hits.

"Shit," he curses quietly, because Lindsey and Frank are still too far ahead to talk to. He'd been watching the rain clouds overhead for miles, idly hoping that he'd outrun them, but luck has never really been on his side.

Slowly, his vision becomes obscured by the rain as it drips down his visor. But he can handle it, for sure — it's hardly more than a drizzle. He'll just drive extra carefully for a few miles until it lets up.

Half an hour later, Gerard realizes that once again, he was completely fucking wrong. The rain is coming down in sheets now, and it forces him to slow down before it wipes him off of the road entirely. All of his leather is water-resistant, but he can still feel the chilliness of it as the wind whips the rain every which way. It's the kind of cold that seeps under his skin until it feels like his bones are shivering.

Ahead of him, he watches as Lindsey swerves and pulls over to take cover under a dense patch of trees. For a moment, he contemplates following her — but then his eyes settle on Frank, only one spot ahead of him now, and he knows he has to keep pushing. He might not get another chance like this.

Kicking back up to the gear he'd lost earlier, Gerard accelerates until he's close enough to see the raindrops sliding down the back of Frank's jacket. His tires barely have a grip on the road, but it's not like this is his first time braving the elements.

Frank, he notices, isn't going his usual reckless speed. "Thinking about pulling over?"

Frank's voice sounds tired and shot as he yells back, but the cocky edge is still there. "Are you?"

Gerard twists his throttle, pushing himself a little closer to Frank. It's dangerous, but it's worth it. "No."

"Then neither am I." Stubborn fucker. He accelerates too, trying to put more distance between himself and Gerard, but for the first time ever, he doesn't seem entirely in control. He moves forward but then falls back tentatively. Gerard creeps closer.

"There's no shame in it, you know." He's nearly level with Frank now. "C'mon. I won't even tell anyone."

"Fuck you," Frank growls, flying forward with a sudden burst of speed. Gerard groans and follows, refusing to let this win slip out of his hands. He watches as Frank checks his rearview mirror, catches sight of Gerard's gaining figure, and goes even faster.

But then, so quickly that Gerard almost misses it, Frank's front tire twists. Instinctively, Gerard knows he's hydroplaning.

In a panic, Frank immediately slams on his foot brake, then realizes that's the absolute _last_ thing he should do and releases it. Gerard looks on with a sinking feeling in his stomach as Frank's bike swerves uncontrollably and catapults him off of the road. At least Frank has the good sense to let go of his handlebars and not take the six hundred pound machine down with him.

There isn't a scream, which is the first surprise. Gerard immediately slows to check out the damage, but all he can see through the torrent of rain is Frank face-down on a patch of grass serving as the median. Lucky, really. Gerard has seen the exact same thing happen to more than one rider, except their faces had landed on surfaces much less forgiving.

It's the perfect opportunity. He can clearly see that Frank is still breathing, even if he is silent. He won't be on the road again for another twenty minutes minimum. Gerard needs that head start if he's going to get a foot back in this race.

He should do it. He should leave him. But — he can't.

Frank shifts and groans as Gerard parks on the side of the road. He nudges the Frank with his boot, not entirely sure how to approach this.

"I'm fine," Frank coughs into the grass. Gerard kicks him with his boot again, maybe a little harder than necessary.

"Can you stand?"

"Of course I can fucking. . ." He rolls over, bracing his hands on either side of his shoulders like he's about to push himself up, but immediately hisses and stiffens. "Holy—" he twists slowly to one side. _"Fuck."_

"Ribs?" Gerard says knowingly.

"Maybe." Jaw set, Frank tries again to get up before letting out another pained groan. He shakes his head in contempt, probably at himself, before looking up at Gerard. "Could you. . .?"

Despite his competitive instincts, Gerard says, "Yeah." Taking Frank's hand, they work together to get him on his feet. Frank offers Gerard a sideways look as he wipes his hands on his pants, not that it does much to get rid of the mud. Blood is trickling out of his nose.

"You've got a little, uh." Gerard wipes his own hand under his nose until Frank gets the hint and copies him.

"Oh. Thanks." He stares at the blood soaking into his glove. "Fuck. It hurts to fucking _breathe."_

"First accident?" Gerard looks at him pityingly, and it feels like normally Frank would bitch at him for that, but right now there’s no snarl.

"No," Frank says, all tough. His wheezes of pain kind of kill the effect, though. "Just, never like this before."

"At least it's not a concussion." Gerard reaches forward, like he's about to touch Frank or something, but catches himself and stops short. "Wait, it's not a concussion, right? What's your name?"

"That's not how to tell if someone has a concussion, fuckwit." Frank pauses, sobers. "But. I don't know. Why can’t I remember my name?"

Gerard's eyes widen. "What?"

With a horrible, croaky laugh, Frank says, "I'm fucking with you, Gerard, Jesus." Then he grimaces painfully. "Okay, so laughing hurts. Good to know."

"Shouldn't have stopped to help you," Gerard grumbles. "I go through all this effort, and you just—"

"Hey, no, no." Frank grabs Gerard by the shoulders and shakes him a little, even though it looks like it hurts. "Thank you."

Gerard stares back at him appraisingly, trying to figure out if this is the set-up for another joke. When no punchline comes, he decides to reconsider.

"Now, as lovely as this weather is," Frank says as a raindrop drips off the tip of his nose, "I vote that we go find some shelter."

"Okay," Gerard answers, sort of surprising himself. "Take it easy, though. I don't want to be held responsible if you brain yourself on the road."

"Oh, please," Frank says loftily, "I'm _fine."_

Gerard just rolls his eyes.

**MAY 18, 2020**

**BLOOMSDALE, MISSOURI**

**MILE 2,052**

In the end, they find an overpass not too far up the road. The downpour only grows heavier during the few minutes it takes to get there, and Gerard purposely moves much slower than necessary, checking behind himself in his mirrors every few seconds. He's still not convinced that Frank is in any state to be riding.

Frank bats away Gerard's hands when he tries to help him get off of his bike, mumbling something about how he's fine, _seriously._ Gerard tries not to care. After all, he has no _reason_ to care — he's just being ridiculous. It shouldn't matter to him that there is blood on Frank's handlebars.

Gerard sits down with his back against the sloping wall of the overpass, the concrete hard on his ass. Frank does the same, only slower. _Fine,_ Frank claims. Yeah, right.

Letting out a sigh, Gerard tilts his head back as he listens to the rain hit the asphalt on either side of them. As much as he doesn't want to admit it, it's a relief to finally be out of the windy chaos.

"You gonna get going?" Frank asks weakly, eyeing the road beyond. Gerard looks past that and up at the thundering sky instead.

"I'd just be riding further into the storm." Frank nods; they both know it's true, even if they'd been too stubborn to admit it until now. It's another moment before Gerard gets the rest of his thoughts together. "Besides, you helped me out earlier. I figure I owe you."

"What? For what?"

"Getting those assholes out of my way." Gerard gestures aimlessly. "You know."

"Oh." Frank stretches his legs out in front of him in a distinctly feline way. "That was no big deal. Racing isn't half as fun if you're not up against someone your speed."

"Lindsey?" Gerard suggests. Frank shrugs noncommittally.

"Yeah, I guess. But, I don't know. It's different with you." Gerard blinks, not really sure what to make of that. Luckily, Frank isn't done talking. "Anyway. You paid off your debt when you saved me from hypothermia or whatever back there."

Gerard shakes his head. "I don't know. It doesn't feel like it, not when you're all. . ." He motions to Frank's body.

Frank glances at him sideways. "Yeah, I know. Not my best look."

"You should really—" Gerard bites his lip. He's one hundred percent out of his element, but he can't just leave it unaddressed. "Your ribs, they might be—"

"Broken?" Frank supplies, not even seeming that concerned. "How can you tell?"

"You'd have to look." Gerard really hopes he's right about this. "I mean, I know you're having trouble breathing and stuff, but that could mean broken _or_ bruised."

"Yeah, okay." Frank shucks his gloves and reaches for his jacket's zipper, switching hands when he realizes the one he's using has a cut on it from where he'd tried to break his fall earlier. So much for the Circuit’s best protection. He runs his thumb over the wound, wiping some of the blood away. It's begun to clot. "I should probably bandage that, right?"

"Yeah," Gerard says. "Here, actually, if you have a t-shirt or something I can—" He reaches into his boot and pulls out his tiny switchblade as Frank shrugs off his jacket. Frank raises an eyebrow at him. Gerard raises one right back. "What? This isn't my first ride."

He doesn't ask any more questions, just looks at Gerard curiously as he carefully pulls his shirt off. Once he's done, he hands it over to Gerard, who cuts off the bottom hem in order to fashion a bandage.

"Palm," he tells Frank, waiting until he offers his hand to him. Gerard wraps it as best he can. It's a pretty shabby job, but Frank will be able to get disinfectant and real medical attention when they finally make it to Nashville. He just can’t be bleeding all over the place until then. "I didn't know you had tattoos," he adds conversationally.

"Hm? Yeah, well, all the gear keeps them pretty covered. Which is fine by me, I guess. They're more of a personal thing, I don't need to flash them on national television." Gerard doesn't really see how Frank expects to keep his ink private when it's literally covering both arms and most of his chest, but he doesn't mention it. "You got any?"

Gerard hesitates, hands slipping on the makeshift wrap. "Just one."

Frank doesn't seem to notice his fumble. "Really? Where?"

"My wrist." Frank hisses between his teeth as Gerard pulls hard on the bandage to finish it off.

"Oh, a wrist tat." Frank's voice gets all high and mighty, like he's the king of tattoos and therefore has supreme verdict over Gerard's decisions in the field. "Let me guess, it has some deep, philosophical reason behind it? Something real special?"

Gerard's voice falls flat. "It's for my brother."

"Oh." Frank doesn't seem so high and mighty anymore. "And that’s the only one?"

Gerard tilts his head. "I don't have a reason to get any more."

"You don't need a _reason,_ it's about—" Frank catches himself and stops before he looks like an ass again. "Okay, sorry. Tell me about your brother, why you got the tattoo."

Again, Gerard hesitates. "I guess because he's the reason I got into the Circuit."

"Yeah?" Frank’s eyes are roving Gerard’s face like he can tell there's more to the story. "And?"

"And nothing," Gerard says quickly, looking away.

"Jesus, okay. Didn't mean to strike a nerve." He worries his bottom lip between his teeth. "But now I really want to know, dammit."

Gerard gives him an unimpressed look.

"How about this, okay?" Frank tries. "I'll tell you about why I got into the Circuit, and then you can tell me. That way, if something tragic happens and I get drugged or whatever and accidentally spill your secrets, you can tell everyone what my deal is too."

Gerard sighs exasperatedly. "I should really check out your ribs."

"In a second, c'mon. I'll tell you, and you tell me."

"Fuck off." It sounds weak even to his own ears. "I don't want to hear about your great quest for gold and glory, okay? It's not as interesting as you think."

Next to him, Frank stills. When he speaks, it's weirdly sincere, and that sort of throws Gerard. "You really think that's why I'm here?"

"What?"

Frank shakes his head slightly. "You're right, we should look at my ribs." His tone matches the rain pouring down around them. He straightens up and turns carefully until he's sitting right in front of Gerard. "Here."

Honestly, Gerard isn't sure what's happening anymore. He decides to just take the route Frank has given him instead of thinking too hard about it. "Where does it hurt?"

Frank takes a deep breath to test it. "Right there," he says, pointing to the left side of his chest.

Gingerly, Gerard places a hand over the spot. Frank shivers at the cold contact. "I think those are your second and third ribs," he starts. "But it's hard to tell if they've shifted at all. Hang on."

He moves a hand over the rest of Frank's ribs with a furrowed brow, searching for dents or protrusions. But Frank is correct; the only aggravated area is right where he'd described it to be, and Gerard can't find any evidence of breakage.

"I think you got lucky. Nothing seems to be dislodged." He runs his hand over Frank's chest one more time to be sure, then drops it. He sort of misses the warmth afterward.

"Meaning?" Frank looks at him intensely with eyes he can't read.

"Bruised, probably." Gerard shrugs. "But I'm no expert."

Frank hasn’t drawn back yet. "So what should I do?"

"Ideally, ice and pain meds. But seeing as how we have neither. . ." Gerard's mouth quirks to one side. "Just don't do anything too stupid until Nashville."

Frank's lips twitch, but he doesn't quite smile. He's still just staring. Gerard genuinely can't remember the last time he saw him blink.

"My dad's a gambler," he says finally. Gerard squints at him, confused, but Frank pays him no mind. "An addict, actually. When I was growing up, we never had money in the house because every time he or my mom would get a paycheck, he'd go blow it all in Atlantic City."

Gerard opens his mouth to say something about how he's sorry, or how that's such a shame, but one look from Frank makes him shut up.

"It's gotten really bad these past couple years. We're in so much debt, and no matter how many extra hours my mom works or how many nights we eat fucking ramen, it only gets worse. He's convinced that the only way out is to win big and pay it all off that way." Frank fiddles with the wrap on his hand. "But he's not just an addicted gambler, he's a _shitty_ gambler. He's never going to win big."

"So you need the hundred grand to pay it off for him," Gerard says softly.

"Right. To get us out of debt and finally get him some fucking help."

"I—" Gerard swallows hard. Frank is an arrogant, annoying asshole, definitely, but now. . .now he's human, too. Gerard doesn't even know where to start. "I'm sorry, Frank, I had no idea."

"Yeah, well." Frank lifts one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. "It's not like I go around telling everyone. It's easier to just act like I really am in this race for the stupid, superficial reasons." He pauses. "So what about you, Houdini? How'd your brother get you back on the Circuit after your grand disappearance?"

And — the thing is, Gerard knows he shouldn't tell him. He could make something up and Frank would be none the wiser. That would be easier, safer, risk-free.

But sitting there under an overpass with the rain pouring down on either side, Frank's chest still bare and radiating heat between them, Gerard knows he’s going to tell the truth anyway.

"His name's Mikey." That seems like the best place to start. Frank nods, encouraging him to continue.

"We were both into motorcycles growing up. We learned to ride at the same place, actually — where we lived in Jersey, there used to be a bunch of drag racing on the Turnpike at night, and he and I would never have anything better to do than go hide in the bushes and watch. They didn't show stuff like that on TV. We'd never seen cars go that fast. It was _awesome."_ He clears his throat.

"Mikey had just turned ten and I was barely a teenager when the police busted all the racers and tried to shut it down. But we came back anyway. We couldn't help ourselves. Thank god, too; the cops should've known better than to think they could ever get those guys.

"Motorcycles turned out to be much easier to hide than cars and just as exhilarating. As soon as those racers figured that out, well — they were back out on the streets. Mikey and I thought they were, like, the coolest people ever." Gerard smiles softly, the skin around his eyes crinkling. "But it turns out we weren't as sneaky as we had thought. They'd known we were watching them the whole time. We thought they were going to pulverize us, definitely, but instead, they just taught us how the mechanics functioned so we could fix their bikes when they got fucked up. Figured they may as well put us to work if we were going to hang around."

Gerard's eyes darken before he continues. "I was competing alongside them by the time I was fourteen, and Mikey was only twelve the first time he rode. Even though he and I were the youngest by far, we both got as good as any of the other guys there because we fucking _loved_ it. We shared a bunk bed, and sometimes we would stay up all night whispering to each other about how we were going to rig up our bikes for the next race. Once I found out that there were real competitions — like, _legal_ competitions — I started immediately. Mikey always preferred the Turnpike, though.

"He stayed in Jersey when I started racing with the pros, doing his own thing with those same guys, but he always supported me. He helped me train after I won my first Circuit, and that's the entire reason I stayed on top." He takes a breath. "I was in Los Angeles a few days after the seventh Grand Circuit ended when I got a call from home and found out that he'd wrecked his bike and snapped his neck."

Gerard can’t lift his eyes from the ground. "If I had been home, he probably would've been racing with me instead of the guys. He probably wouldn't have ridden so hard. He'd probably still be alive." He wipes the back of his hand over his face even though he isn't crying. He won’t let himself in front of Frank. "I — ah, after I found out, I dropped out of the Circuit immediately. I had no idea how to cope. But I did have a _lot_ of money after winning this thing four years in a row, and that kind of cash can buy you as many pills and as much booze as you want, no matter how young you are. I went completely off the deep end without him."

Frank doesn’t speak for a moment. He just stares at Gerard like he can see right through him. "How long have you been clean?"

Gerard frowns. "Long enough."

"I wasn't—" Frank bites his tongue. "This isn't Gerard Way and Frank Iero, okay? This is just Gerard and Frank. Two normal people. You don't have to get defensive."

"Sorry." Gerard blows air out of his mouth slowly. It makes his tangled, slightly damp helmet-hair sway in front of his eyes. "About two years. I hit rock bottom when I was twenty-one, but I didn't stop using completely until I was twenty-four."

"I can't believe you're here at all. Doing this, even though it killed him."

"Me neither, sometimes. But he'd want me to be. He loved it, and I love it — in a way, it keeps him alive." Gerard remains pensive for a second, but then it melts away, like now that the truth is out in the open he can relax and stop holding onto it so tight. "Where'd you learn to ride?"

"Me?" Frank shrugs. "I was born with it. God's gift to the people, you know."

Gerard rubs his thumbs over his temple. "You are _insufferable."_

"It's charming." Frank ignores Gerard as he shakes his head. "No, actually, I grew up in Jersey too. My dad was a mechanic before he got so hooked on gambling. He used to fix up motorcycles and sell them, but I would always sneak off with whichever one was the fastest and ride it until he caught me and pulled me home by my ear. It naturally evolved into something bigger."

Gerard nods thoughtfully. "Don't you think it's kind of weird that we grew up in the same state doing the same thing but never ran into each other?"

"We could've," Frank says. "Maybe we just weren't looking."

Gerard nods. "I was usually too busy staring at the road to look anywhere else."

"Was?"

"Was," confirms Gerard. "Mikey's death changed my perspective on a lot of things. Now I know that watching the road and looking ahead are two entirely different things."

"Old and wise." Frank nods sagely, then goes, "Hey!" as Gerard smacks his arm.

 _"Experienced_ and wise," Gerard corrects. "Like any respectable racer. Not that you'd know."

"Low blow." Frank tuts teasingly. "Still, though, seriously. What's that got to do with your tattoo?"

Gerard takes a second to understand. He'd forgotten how they'd ended up here. "It's, uh—" He yanks on his jacket sleeve a little, huffing when it falls back down again, before finally giving up and just unzipping it. The glove goes next. Once he's gotten it off, he holds out his left wrist for Frank to see.

"An X," Frank finishes. "Because. . .?"

"It's kind of hard to explain." Frank shoots him a look. "Okay! Okay, fine. I'll try. Literally speaking, it's a replica of the X that Mikey and I used to spray paint on the backs of our helmets when we raced on the Turnpike. See how the edges are thicker than the middle? Just like that. The older racers asked us to do that so they'd know not to roughhouse us when we were riding. So every time he'd pass me, that's what I'd see."

"He was a really good rider, then."

"Yeah, he really was." Gerard's expression grows distant, but not unhappy. "Whenever I'd beat him, he'd say it was because I was the better racer, but I still think he let me win."

"I think he'd be proud of you." Frank's voice pulls Gerard back down to Earth.

Gerard smiles weakly. "I don't know, maybe. He wouldn't have been proud of who I became after I lost him."

"But he'd be glad that you're here now, that's the part that matters," Frank presses. _"I'm_ glad you're here now."

Gerard finally meets his eyes — dark, melting pools, with an expression unlike anything Gerard's ever seen on him before. "Why?"

Frank pauses. "A lot of reasons.”

Something in his voice makes Gerard not want any elaboration on that. He looks out towards the rain again, and the sky that isn’t just dark from clouds anymore. “Maybe we should sleep while we can. You need it for your ribs.”

“Maybe,” Frank says.

**MAY 19, 2020**

**BLOOMSDALE, MISSOURI ➝ NASHVILLE, TENNESSEE**

**MILE 2,052 - 2,322**

Gerard wakes up with the dawn, back and neck stiff from sleeping on the ground. Still, he feels refreshed, alert. It's the most rest he's gotten since the beginning of the tour.

He’d woken up in the middle of the night and decided to wait out the storm overnight when it became clear that it wasn't letting up anytime soon. Eyes still closed, Gerard listens for the rain now, relieved when all he hears is the slow drip of water off of the overpass. Finally, it's over. He can get back on the road.

But he's afraid to open his eyes, Gerard realizes. He has no idea where he and Frank stand. How could he? He spent practically half of the tour thinking he knew Frank and hating him for what was on the surface. Now it runs deeper. Now Frank isn't some punk-ass kid with an ego problem and a wicked smirk, he's the son of father who owes a lot of money to the wrong people. He's a kid who's trying to do the right thing for his family. He's a listener and someone who understands. Someone else who has experienced rock bottom.

Smiling softly to himself, Gerard musters his courage and opens his eyes at last — to see no one.

Frank isn't next to him, and only one bike is still parked under the overpass. Its tires sag against the asphalt. Without having to move closer, Gerard already knows they've been slashed.

His hand goes to his boot, feeling the inside — empty. The other one wields nothing either. Gerard's jaw clenches as the truth settles in. It had all been an act, an elaborate set-up. Maybe Frank's crash had been staged, maybe not. Either way, he'd taken full advantage of his situation. And of Gerard.

Frank had never meant what he’d said. He'd just wanted first place. Gerard curses under his breath — during all those years off, he'd clearly lost his edge.

Gerard's back cracks as he stands, his limited options rolling through his mind like a slot machine. There's no way he can walk to Nashville, not if he wants to arrive in the next month, but his motorcycle is totally out of commission. To top it all off, he's still on the fucking clock.

Gerard runs a hand through his hair, tugging on it out of frustration. He'd begun pacing without meaning to. The next time he sees Frank, Gerard swears to god, he's going to show him how his tires feel.

The only hope he has is fixing the Circuit bike up. He's under an overpass. Overpasses are connected to towns. Towns sell tires.

But tires cost money, which Gerard conveniently has exactly none of. Fuck.

However, he’s waited too long to get back on this track, and Bloomsdale, Missouri, is not going to be the place he calls it quits. With an annoying amount of effort, he pushes his bike out of the way and behind one of the overpass' stabilizers where it won't be noticed. There's no telling who is going to roll through here and what they would like to do with some spare parts.

Then, he zips up his jacket, and he starts walking.

*

"So I'm going to be coming into a lot of money very soon," Gerard explains to the automotive store's manager. Apparently, when you walk into a shop and ask the lady behind the counter if you can _borrow_ a set of wheels, you get referred to the head honcho. "And if you write down your information for me, I'll pay you back triple the retail price."

"If you want to make deals, go to a pawn shop." The manager crosses his arms. He's got an interesting look going on, like he was once a hipster but then decided to shave his head and grow out the beard. "Prices are non-negotiable."

"Look, I know it's a lot to ask, but I'm in a tough situation." Gerard looks up at him beseechingly. The dude is like, a million feet tall. "I'm a Circuit racer. There was a mishap this morning, and I can't finish this leg without a new set of tires."

"Circuit racer, eh?" The manager lifts an eyebrow, and for a second, Gerard thinks he's getting somewhere. "You could be the Queen of England for all I care. Hate to break it to you, but that title doesn't ring gold for everyone. The Circuit did nothing but screw all us family shops out of business. My father had to close down three stores last year, you know that? Your fancy race is nothing more than a marketing ploy."

The thing is, he's kind of right. Gerard has always hated the commercial side of this life, the television appearances and the huge billboards with the Circuit logo high in the sky for everyone to see. "I know, I get that — but you ride, right? You have to understand what it's like to see your bike like this. I would do anything to get her fixed up."

"I haven't ridden in years. There's no point anymore." The manager frowns, and his beard twitches. "Anything?"

Gerard nods. "Anything."

Something in the manager's expression shifts. He looks over to the girl manning register, who has been watching on nervously since Gerard walked in, and says, "Find him the wheels he needs and the tools to get 'em on. It's on us."

"Thank you, sir." Gerard extends a hand. "I'll pay you back triple, promise. You have no idea how much I appreciate this."

"Keep your money. I don't want it." He takes Gerard's hand and shakes it firmly. "I've got something else in mind."

Gerard's eyebrows shoot up. "Which is?"

"You're about to become a walking advertisement." He grins toothily, a glint in his eyes. "We're going to beat the Circuit at their own game."

*

Gerard stretches in his new jacket, rolling his shoulders and trying to break it in. The leather doesn't sit right against his chest, but it's the price he has to pay. Across the back, _Jones' Auto Supply_ is printed in bright red — the same logo that's now stuck to his helmet and the side of his bike, right over where _Circuit_ had been. It's not subtle, and the jacket's lining feels cheap, but at least the letters match his hair.

Whatever, he thinks as he puts down the tire iron and wipes his hands on his pants. They're greasy, and he feels all of thirteen again, fixing up bikes for the racers on the Turnpike. He can almost see Mikey over his shoulder, telling him what he's doing wrong like the damn know-it-all he was rather than just working on his own machine.

It hits Gerard all of a sudden that Mikey's memory doesn't just belong to him anymore — Frank knows now, too. The story Frank had traded with likely isn’t even true.

He puts the finishing touches on the tires and stands up, swinging a leg over the side of his bike. Logically, he knows he should do some tests, make sure he hadn't fucked something up before he gets up to ninety miles an hour and finds out the hard way, but there just isn't _time._ Not with Frank and god knows who else so far ahead.

With that in mind, he wrestles his helmet on, almost grinning as he catches sight of its new sticker. He's surprised to discover that he doesn't even mind — at least he's advertising for someone he's met face to face. Besides, he did what he had to do.

With Nashville in mind, he kicks his engine to life.

**MAY 19, 2020**

**NASHVILLE, TENNESSEE ➝ CHARLOTTE, NORTH CAROLINA**

**MILE 2,322 - 2,731**

The new tires hold up the whole way. It's a fucking miracle.

At the checkpoint, Gerard explains his bike's situation and the attendant assures him that they can take a second look at it and fix any errors. Thank god, really, because Gerard's a little rustier than he'd like to admit.

It's inside the checkpoint that the miracle ends.

Frank catches his eye immediately from across the room. He's got a bowl of something in front of him and Lindsey on his left. Great. A little victor's table.

Gerard stubbornly looks away, shoving down the urge to strangle Frank right where he sits. He doesn't want to cause a scene. At least, he doesn't want to be the one to initiate it.

The scoreboard tells Gerard that Frank's tactic had really cost him. Ninth place today, only ahead of William and Gabe, and fifth overall. Any place past third, and the numbers get tight. This far in the race, it's nearly impossible to recover from a fall like that.

Frank, of course, is in first. Gerard sneaks another glance at him against his better judgment. He's staring right back despite the fact that Lindsey is clearly talking to him. Gerard tears his gaze away immediately, but he knows what he saw. Hot eyes, boring into him like he can read Gerard as easily as a fucking book.

He can still feel Frank's gaze on his turned back. He should really go over there, knock Frank's head against the table and twist his arm until it fucking pops, but something's holding him back.

Then someone calls Frank's name, and the intensity shatters. Gerard turns his head to see Frank making his way over to where Vicky is sitting. She waves Lindsey over too, and Lindsey follows, both of them leaning in and talking quietly about something that Gerard can't hear.

Movement catches Gerard's eye, and he twists ever-so-slightly to observe Brendon getting up from his seat, plate in hand. There's something shifty about his strut. He wanders past Frank's table and — so quickly that Gerard nearly misses it — drops something into Frank's bowl. Then he continues on his way to the stairs and disappears.

Gerard glances around the room, trying to keep his expression blank. No one else is watching Brendon's retreating form or Frank's dinner. He's the only one who saw.

Whatever Brendon is carrying, it must be strong — when Lynn had been the victim, it caused her to drop out of the race entirely. Frank's tenacious, but he's already nursing bruised ribs. That won't pair well with a day full of puking.

Apparently Vicky has enticed Lindsey and Frank to join her at her table, because they both return to their old spots to pick up their food. As he watches, Gerard's stomach flips nervously. Fuck. He hates his conscience. Racing would be so much easier if he was a sociopath.

As the pair of them make their way back over to Vicky, Gerard lets out a tortured sigh and decides it's now or never. He walks directly into Frank's path and checks his shoulder hard enough to make him stumble and lose his grip on the bowl. It hits the floor, shattering, and hot soup goes everywhere. The soup is a bit cloudier than normal, but other than that, no one would never know it had been tampered with. Brendon's not messing around.

"What the hell, man?" Frank shoves him right back, jaw set in a way that means he'd taken it completely wrong. The idea of telling Frank what he’d just been saved from from crosses Gerard's mind, but he squashes it. Even if he did confess, Frank would likely just call him a liar and make a crack about how he's a sore loser. He would never believe that he’d actually been in danger, because he’s Frank fucking Iero, right? Nothing matters to him. He’s invincible.

So Gerard just mutters, "Sorry, didn't see you there," with as much venom as he can muster and hurries out of the room. He'll come back for dinner later, when everyone's eyes aren't on him.

Frank will get what's coming to him, but Brendon doesn't get to do the honors.

*

Truthfully, Gerard has never used the Charlotte leg to his full advantage. He's never needed to. Now, it seems like his only hope.

His tattoo feels raw when he touches it, like fresh ink, despite being years old. Maybe because it's not a secret anymore. It’d been exploited for some fake trust and a knife in his tires. Dammit, he needs to _focus._

For the starting miles, he lays low, sneaking into fourth position when a spot opens up but not making any aggressive moves. On a long stretch of straight road, he sees Frank glance back at him like he can't believe it. If only he knew.

The advantage to having been on the Circuit for so long is experience, of course, but also the people Gerard has gotten to know; insider knowledge about the track sometimes gets passed down to the lucky. No one stays in the game forever, and when a racer finally retires, it's customary to pick someone with potential and tell them what's what. As the youngest Circuit victor ever, Gerard may as well have had the word _potential_ written across his forehead back in 2013.

It was the year of his fourth consecutive win, but more importantly, the year that Billie Joe Armstrong left the Circuit. Another young champion, he was someone Gerard always looked up to, and it had been an honor to tear down the road with him. Billie Joe held out to an impressive thirty-one years old — a record, Gerard was pretty sure — and everyone missed him sorely once he said goodbye.

Billie Joe had liked Gerard, though. Liked him enough to pull him aside one night after the victor's banquet and tell him about the shortcut on the Charlotte route.

He'd explained at the time that it was a desperate measure, and to only use it when all other hope was lost. The more people who knew about it, he'd said, the less valuable it became.

Gerard is pretty sure that losing to a lying, ego-driven punk qualifies as a time for desperate measures.

No sign designates the shrouded sideroad that locals call the Tail of the Dragon, not counting the faded yellow WARNING post that’s been graffitied to death. Gerard tries to be inconspicuous in Billie Joe's honor, downshifting without much ado and quietly turning off of the highway. From a little ways behind him, Pete notices and jerks his bike like he's going to follow; but then he straightens out, evidently deciding that Gerard doesn't know what he's doing.

Alone, Gerard holds his breath as he sees the Tail of the Dragon for the first time. Over the years, it appears to have fallen into a state of disrepair, dead branches littering the sides of the road and the asphalt cracking. Perhaps in this new generation of racers, the secret has simply been lost to time. Not that Gerard is complaining.

He treads carefully at first, because while this way may be quicker, it's no joke — before the road spits him out at the other end, Gerard’s going to have to muscle through three hundred and eighteen curves compressed into eleven miles. He can still hear Billie Joe's voice drilling those numbers into his head.

Gaining confidence, he kicks up to his highest gear, leaning forward and feeling the misty wind on his face. It's refreshing to ride somewhere without people cutting him off and trailing him — this feeling of freedom is what had gotten Gerard into the sport in the first place. Short of having actual wings, this is the best way to fly.

The first turn hits, and he countersteers smoothly, barely even slowing down. Underneath his helmet, he grins. He can totally handle three hundred and seventeen more of those.

**MAY 20, 2020**

**CHARLOTTE, NORTH CAROLINA**

**MILE 2,731**

"That was fast." The checkpoint's attendant raises an eyebrow at Gerard as she takes his motorcycle.

"Was it?" Gerard tries to bite back a smug smile to no avail. Oh well. He figures he has the right to be pleased with himself after bypassing nearly a quarter of the Charlotte leg. He'll find Billie Joe later and thank him.

Inside the checkpoint building, the food is still hot and steaming. Gerard is beyond ecstatic to have first pick and, even better, a quiet room to eat in. A solid hour passes before anyone else shows up. First is Frank, who stumbles in panting like he'd just run a marathon and lets the door slam shut behind him. His mouth drops open in utter shock as his eyes land on Gerard and he realizes that he is not, in fact, the first racer to arrive.

"For _fuck's_ sake. How did you — I didn't even _see_ you the whole way here, where did you—" Frank still can't catch his breath. Looking up from his plate, Gerard shakes his hair out of his face and stares at Frank indignantly.

After swallowing a mouth full of green beans, he offers vaguely, "I know a guy."

Frank opens his mouth but then closes it before he can get words out, bewildered. It's pretty entertaining. Finally, he says, "A guy who can _teleport?"_

"No." Gerard scoffs and takes another stab at his beans. "Just an old friend. You aren't the only one with tricks up your sleeve, Frank."

If anyone else was in the room, they would have just assumed that Gerard is referring to Frank's stunt at the Mojave Desert. But too much had gone down since then that the cameras hadn't captured. And when Frank's eyes flare, Gerard knows that he gets it.

"Look," Frank says carefully, taking a step closer to Gerard. "I know that you think the other night under the overpass was just some cheap plot, but when we talked, you can’t deny that we—"

Behind Frank, the door is thrown open so forcefully that Gerard is surprised it stays on its hinges. Lindsey storms in with a furious scowl. Her hair and clothes are soaking wet, dripping onto the floor as she lets out a string of curses.

"Fuck the south, fuck this weather, I hate this fucking — one second it's just cloudy, and the next second, it's fucking _monsoon season_ or something!" She turns her fierce gaze on Gerard and Frank, looking them up and down. "Of course you guys are completely dry. Of fucking course." Her boots squeak obnoxiously as she marches over to the buffet.

Momentarily stunned into forgetting their own feud, Frank and Gerard exchange wide-eyed glances. Frank speaks first. "It's raining? Since when?"

"Since now, motherfucker," growls Lindsey. She must have had a hell of a ride to lose her head like this. "Can't you hear it?"

Now that she mentions it, Gerard actually can; the downpour is so intense that it's audible from all the way downstairs. He’d just been too preoccupied to notice.

"Oh, fuck." Frank points to the TV on the adjacent wall. Gerard squints at the red headline banner running across the bottom: FLASH FLOOD WARNING, EFFECTIVE UNTIL ELEVEN AM.

"They can't be serious." Lindsey groans. "How does this keep _happening?"_

It's actually not the worst weather Gerard has encountered on the Circuit, not by far. When he was eighteen, he'd spent a day hunkered down in the midwest listening to tornado sirens. At seventeen, the beginning of the race had been delayed two weeks due to earthquake damage in California. He doesn't mention that, though; Lindsey would probably shank him with her fork.

"They don't actually expect us to wait around until tomorrow afternoon." Frank stares at the TV pleadingly. The TV does not respond.

Lindsey rubs her temples. "Legally, the Circuit can't let us race with an extreme weather warning in the area. Something about, like, not wanting to get sued. Cowards."

"She's right," Gerard confirms with a solemn nod. Frank glares at him. "Guess we better get comfortable."

*

In lieu of the normal early start, it doesn't take long for everyone to go stir-crazy in the checkpoint house as the rain continues to come down steadily. (Gerard is considering starting a petition to hold the tour in the fall from now on in order to avoid all of this volatile _spring_ shit.)

He's eating breakfast alone, poking around in his cornflakes restlessly. The scoreboard has been updated; Gerard is going to have to do a lot more than thank Billie Joe Armstrong, because now he's in second place. He's busy analyzing the numbers when Frank plants his hands on the table in front of Gerard and looks down at him. "Let me finish what I was trying to say last night."

"No." Gerard talks with his mouth full, not bothering to swallow first. Frank isn't worth it.

"I don’t want you to think that I—"

Gerard cuts him off before he has the chance to say anything. There are no words that could justify what he did, anyway. "Fuck off. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, and you're ruining it."

Frank still sits down across from him. "I'm trying to be an adult here, Gerard."

Tightening his grip on the spoon in his hand, Gerard contemplates flicking cereal at Frank. Fuck being an adult. "You slashed my tires and left me stranded on I-40. That's it. You don't get a do-over." He pauses to breathe, trying to keep his voice level before he causes a scene. "I want my knife back."

Reaching into his jacket pocket, Frank produces the blade and slides it across the table. Gerard raises an eyebrow. He hadn't really expected that to be so easy.

"An olive branch," Frank adds.

Gerard scoffs. "It doesn't count as an olive branch if you had to steal it from me first."

Frank ignores him. "Are we good?"

He can't be serious. In what world does returning something you _stole_ equate to an even score? Incredulously, Gerard asks, "You're kidding, right?"

"What?" Frank's eyebrows knit together like he's actually _offended._ The kid's got some nerve. "You spilled my soup. Wasn't that, like, revenge?"

"That was a _favor,"_ Gerard spits before he can stop himself.

Frank blinks dumbly at him. "What?"

"Nothing," Gerard says hastily, staring down into his cornflakes. "Enough already, okay? I don't know what angle you're trying to play here, but I'm not fucking interested."

"It's not an angle."

"Then what is it?"

Frank takes a breath like he's about to say something else, but then only exhales, defeated, and turns to leave.

**MAY 21, 2020**

**CHARLOTTE, NORTH CAROLINA ➝ WASHINGTON, D.C.**

**MILE 2,731 - 3,130**

When they finally get back on the road, the air is muggy but the sky is clear. The hiccup in the Circuit's rhythm has everyone on edge; it's so easy to fall into the steady routine of waking up, riding hard, sleeping like a rock, then rinsing and repeating. Any lull in the cycle makes it feel as if Gerard’s center of gravity has shifted. He knows how essential it is to keep his wits about him, though. He finds his tattoo and traces it, breathing deeply.

With the sound of eleven engines roaring, the leg begins. It doesn't take long for Gerard to notice that Frank is off his game. It's peculiar, to say the least, and Gerard can't help but wonder what's got him so preoccupied. He's not hugging the turns as tight as usual or leaning into it. Of course, Frank's version of an off-day is still damn good — just not good enough to beat Gerard.

On the next curve, Gerard sneaks past and overtakes Frank. He checks his rearview mirrors quickly, waiting for the moment when Frank wakes up and flies past him. When it finally comes, it's too late - Frank can try all he wants, but Gerard is too far ahead to be caught now.

He refuses to acknowledge the guilty feeling that settles at the bottom of his stomach.

*

Too busy handing off his bike and making small talk with the attendants, Gerard doesn't notice Frank until he latches onto his arm and yanks him away. "Hey!"

"We need to _talk,"_ Frank growls back without missing a beat, still dragging Gerard behind him. Apparently he’s a lot stronger than he looks.

Gerard blows a piece of hair out of his face. "I was in the middle of a conversation, you know."

"This is more important," says Frank. Gerard knows he should dig his heels into the dirt rather than just let Frank get his way like always, but for some reason, he continues to stumble along with him until they're behind the checkpoint's building. It's dark, the sky fading from blue to black, and Gerard belatedly realizes that it's the only side of the house with no windows. Completely hidden — no cameras, no racers. No witnesses. Oh, shit.

"The last leg is tomorrow," Frank begins.

"I'm aware."

Frank grits his teeth like he's holding back an insult. "You saw yesterday's scoreboard. We both know that it's going to come down to the two of us."

Gerard cocks an eyebrow, folding his arms. "So?"

"You know why I need the money."

"Oh really? I'm supposed to believe that story is true?"

Frank narrows his eyes at him. It might work on everyone else, but Gerard isn’t intimidated. "It _is."_

"Forgive me for my skepticism," Gerard mutters darkly. "I should have left you on the side of the road.”

"You never could’ve lived with yourself.”

Gerard huffs out a breath. “That’s a really shitty way of saying thank you.”

“I already _said_ thank you!”

"Yeah?" Gerard's voice drips with sarcasm. "You’re right. And I could really tell you meant it by the way you _looted me_ and _slashed my fucking tires."_

“I had to do that, okay? You know that!”

“No,” Gerard says. “I don’t know anything about you, and I don’t want to.”

“Hate to break it to you, but it’s a little late for that.”

Gerard spits on the ground right next to Frank's boot. "That would be true, provided I believed a damn word you said. But it’s a little late for that, too.”

Like the flip of a switch, Frank's expression hardens and he steps even closer, his chin is tilted up in a challenge. Gerard can feel the heat coming off of him. Before he can get a word out, Gerard cuts in with, “I’m not letting you win, Frank.”

Frank visibly falters, expression dropping for just a second before he recovers. “That’s not what I was going to ask.”

“Don’t treat me like I’m stupid,” Gerard says, suddenly exhausted by this whole thing. More than anything, he’d just like to get inside and eat.

“I don’t need your help, okay?” Frank’s voice is frantic in a way Gerard’s never heard before, and it’s actually more concerning than the aggression. "I just need you to know that I meant it. Everything I told you, it’s true. I freaked out because I was vulnerable, and no one had ever heard all of that stuff about me before, and now I don't know what to do. I don’t know how to make you see that."

Gerard doesn't answer. Frank's ragged breaths fan over his skin. It's so fucking distracting.

"Brendon drugged my soup." Frank says it like it's a theory, like he's just trying it out on his tongue, but Gerard’s open mouth must confirm it immediately. "That was the favor. You cared then. How am I supposed to believe that you don't care now?"

“Why does it even _matter_ if I care, Frank?”

Frank just looks at him for a moment. “Because I care about you. I grew up watching you, okay? And you’re one of the big reasons I’m here at all. So it fucking sucks that you hate me so much. I shouldn’t have done what I did, but he’s my fucking _dad,_ Gerard, so I was stupid. I messed up. I’m asking for a fair race from here on out.”

“Asking or offering?” Gerard quips.

Frank doesn’t answer him.

Rocking back on his heels, Gerard takes a second to think. He’ll be damned if he lets his guard down around Frank again, but, “That sounded an awful lot like an apology, you know.”

Frank won’t meet his eyes. “Just what I needed to say,” he tells the ground, then brushes past Gerard and walks inside. When Gerard follows a minute later, he’s nowhere to be found.

**MAY 22, 2020**

**WASHINGTON, D.C. ➝ NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK**

**MILE 3,130 - 3,355**

Frank bumps his hip against Gerard's as they walk out to their bikes the next morning. "Good luck out there today."

"Thanks, Frank." Gerard lifts an eyebrow, kind of surprised.

Frank smirks. "You'll need it."

And _there_ it is. Just in time for the cameras, as always. Gerard doesn’t dignify it with a response.

The loudspeaker's spiel is a bit different this morning — on the last leg, the racers do not depart as one pack. Rather, they're dismissed in accordance with their current time standings. It's done for the sake of simplicity, really. Whoever crosses the finish line first gets the prize; no one has to stand around and wait while numbers are crunched. That would make for terrible television.

Gerard knows that his current standing means he's set to leave just one minute and thirty-seven seconds after Frank, but that tiny number still feels like the end of the world. Their bikes, the only ones currently on the track, are close to each other, with Gerard's symbolically pushed back a few inches. Frank mounts his first. There's less showmanship to it than usual. Gerard follows.

"Hey." Frank has his helmet on now, visor flipped up. "Whatever happens today, I promise it'll be fair."

"Good." Frank raises an expectant eyebrow at him. "What, you want me to promise too? Am I the cheater here?"

Above them, the announcer's voice instructs Frank to take his mark.

Gerard relents. "Fine. I promise that when I kick your ass today, it will be completely fair."

"Likewise," Frank says, not even fazed. Then he kicks his engine on and rolls his shoulders.

Looking over at him, Gerard has the inexplicable urge to — he doesn't know. To say something that _matters,_ to maybe even forgive. Like Frank's about to go off to war, as if Gerard isn't right behind him.

Gerard shakes his head at himself. Frank has his helmet on already, anyway, and he’s clearly focused on the road. Neither of them need any more distractions.

"Go!" With the smell of burning rubber, Frank surges forward onto the road. Gerard hadn't even heard, "Get set."

But now it's his turn. He spurs his motorcycle to life and listens carefully for his own sendoff, eyes glued to Frank's receding figure. Unknowingly, he forgets all about his tattoo.

At the announcer's call, he tears down the last leg of the Circuit after Frank.

*

Gerard's always been better at turns. It's the sort of thing that a newbie can study the technicalities of forever, but nothing beats sheer experience. Which, luckily, Gerard has plenty of.

So after the road's first turn, Gerard creeps closer. By the third, he and Frank are nearly neck and neck. But Frank stays true to his word — no foul comments, no swerving or cheap tricks. Gerard understands the message: as much as Frank wants to win this, he's got enough sense now to go about it the right way. Another apology.

Logically, Gerard knows that there are other racers behind them, but he's yet to catch a glimpse of anyone in his mirrors. His world only contains Frank right now.

Hours later, once they've been inhaling the scent of fuel for so long that it's no longer noticeable, the two of them reach the point where I-95 morphs into the Jersey Turnpike. Gerard has to force himself to tear his eyes away from the electricity towers and distant buildings on either side and focus instead on the road in front of him. It'd been too long since he'd last seen this place. He thought he’d be ready for it, but of course he isn’t.

Either Frank is a mind reader or he's watching Gerard in his mirrors, because he turns slightly and yells, "You good?"

"I feel like someone just punched me in the gut," Gerard calls back honestly. His grip on the throttle has loosened subconsciously, he notices with a start, but somehow he didn’t fall behind.

Because Frank’s slowed down too, he realizes.

“Hey,” comes Frank’s voice. “You can do this, okay? Do it for him. Don’t let the ghosts haunt you.”

Gerard just looks at him, bewildered. That was the most un-Frank thing he could have possibly said. Frank's visor has fallen back down, so Gerard can’t see his eyes, but the soft look he sees in his mind’s eye makes Gerard’s gut twist in a way he hadn’t expected.

Oh.

He takes a deep breath, and they speed down the exit ramp and into New York City. This is where it gets tricky; the tight corners and busy streets of the city are unforgiving, even though the Circuit does its best to clear a path. As the buildings grow denser, Gerard wonders how Frank is handling it. Gerard remembers the first time he did this, a stupid sixteen-year-old blazing into Times Square with nothing on his shoulders. His entire life changed that day. Gerard realizes, suddenly, that one way or another, the same is about to happen to Frank.

A caution-taped path keeps them heading in the right direction, but Gerard flicks his eyes from sign to sign anyway, counting the numbers to Seventh Street. He and Frank cut a hard turn at the same time and keep flying. They’re close enough to touch. The cameras surrounding them don't even need fancy angles and music to make this seem suspenseful — the tension is as real as the asphalt beneath their tires.

The massive skyscrapers obscure the finish line until they’re practically on top of it. Gerard knows the end is coming before he can physically see it, but it still makes his stomach do a one-eighty as they approach the intersection of Broadway and Seventh. There’s so much adrenaline in his system that he has to grit his teeth to channel it somewhere so he doesn’t spontaneously combust. He glances over at Frank, whose shoulders are set tight. This is it.

All around them, Time Square's never-ending walls of screens pick up live race footage for bystanders to gaze up at. Gerard pays it no mind, too busy pushing his engine as far as it will go, and then some. The finish line is right there. _Right there._

Frank is still holding steady, his handlebars in a deathgrip, but at this point, it's clear that the city has never been his area of expertise. Gerard thinks back to the interview of Frank on his hotel TV, during which he'd claimed to have trained extensively on all types of terrain. A lie.

Gerard knows him too well. He’s learned how Frank rides, what his limitations are — so he knows that right now, Frank isn't going to win. And there’s no prize for second place.

They are meters away from the finish line, identical blurs of fury, when Gerard lets go of his throttle.

Frank flies across the finish line and the crowd erupts like a thousand flames, chanting Frank's name like he's a god. Before Frank is even off of his bike, he's waving back to them, grin so huge that it's threatening to split his face in two. A golden medallion is draped around his neck.

Gerard's brakes squeal as he pulls up right behind him, all but forgotten.

*

Gerard waves the cameras out of his face as he walks to his hotel room. Most of them go willingly; Frank is still out there, signing autographs and taking photos and kissing babies, probably, and he's a much better news story. Gerard could have stuck around and waited for the other racers to pull up — Lindsey and Vicky will definitely be arriving soon — but it hadn't felt right.

This time, he really doesn't have an option besides the Circuit's complimentary, overly fancy hotel room. He has to be at the same place for the ceremony in the evening, and it's not like he has the cash on him to go check into a motel.

The lady at the front counter greets him chirpily and hands him a room key before he even has to ask, which feels a little weird. Still, he says thank you and heads to the elevators. They're the expensive kind made of glass, so he watches the outside world as he rises, counting the dings in his head until they reach eighteen. The city seems so small when he's on top of it.

It takes him two tries to get the keycard to work. Maybe he's more exhausted than he'd let himself believe out on the road.

The first thing he does is strip off all of his grimy racing clothes, throwing them to the other side of the room. They're so pungent that he can smell them all the way from the bed.

Then, he collapses face-first onto the clean sheets, so tired that the million thoughts in his head dissipate immediately. Only one remains as he drifts off, fuzzy around the edges and indistinct in a way that prevents Gerard from seeing it correctly; just a crooked smile and tattoos in the rain.

**MAY 22, 2020**

**NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK**

**MILE 3,355**

"I'm _up,"_ Gerard groans in response to the insistent knocking on his door, despite the fact that he's still lying nude in bed. It works anyway; the banging ceases. Gerard rolls onto his back and stretches before sitting up. His eyes catch on two things — firstly, the clock on the table beside him, which shocks him with the news that he'd slept through the entire afternoon and now the ceremony is in an hour. Shit. Secondly, the bathroom door is open, and he squints blearily at his reflection is the mirror. It's framed by lightbulbs like something out of an old movie. He's not sure if helmet hair or bedhead is to blame, but either way, he looks like a fucking mess.

The shower's hot water gets rid of some of the tension he hadn't slept off. It's a totally different kind of comfort; not like the steady rhythm of his engine or the familiar push of wind, but something more peaceful. He kind of likes it.

There is a suit hanging in the closet for him when he's done, perfectly fitted to his measurements. Gerard eyes it with distaste. For an indulgent second, he considers throwing back on his disgusting racing gear and attending the banquet in that instead, flaunting another brand's logo on live television. He'd never understood the formality of these things. That's not what racing is about, for fuck's sake. Not even close.

His old clothes really are rank, though, so he shrugs on the dress shirt and shimmies into the pants with a sigh. The suit jacket stays where it is on the hanger, and before Gerard can walk out the door, he glances in the mirror one last time and decides to pop open the top couple of buttons on his crisp shirt. He grins. The Circuit is going to hate it. Whatever, it's not like he'll be going up on stage. He's not their golden boy tonight.

There's one thing he won't compromise, though; he toes on his racing boots and laces them up. They had been worn down before, but now the soles actually seem to be in danger of falling off. Even better.

Gerard pushes the door open with his shoulder and heads out, ready to plaster a smile on his face and shake hands with wealthy old men who don't even know his name.

*

"We're going live in twenty," Gerard hears an authoritative voice announce from his perch at the bar. He's nursing a diet Coke and making small talk with the bartender, who seems jaded regarding these sorts of events. At all of Gerard's previous ceremonies, the bartender had been the same, a sweet redhead named Hayley. Gerard doesn't ask, but he wonders when they replaced her.

"We can't go live!" says a different voice frantically. "We're still missing racers!"

Spinning around on his barstool, Gerard gives the banquet hall a once-over. He doesn't notice anyone missing — Lindsey's there in a suit of her own, seated next to Vicky, who's in a dark gown. Gerard locates Andy, Joe, Patrick, and Pete before quickly looking away when they catch his eye; that's still not a bear he wants to poke. William and Gabe are in their own little world, per usual, and Brendon appears to be chatting up a poor cameraman who looks like he'd rather be literally anywhere else. They'd even flown out Lynn.

Then his eyes skip across the victor's table. It's empty.

A crew member is muttering into his walkie-talkie lowly, but Gerard is close enough that he can hear it if he strains. "Can we send someone up to find Iero? Yeah. Floor twenty, room seven." There's a pause and static that Gerard can't make out. "Kim, this is an _emergency._ We don't have time for you to finish graphics. Make some intern do it!"

The guy turns and suddenly he's staring right back at Gerard, who feels exactly like a deer in headlights. "Uh—" Gerard says intelligently, feeling guilty even though he shouldn't.

"Sorry you had to hear that." The guy tries for charming, but it just comes off as cold. "But we've got the situation handled. No need to worry."

Gerard's mouth starts moving before he has the chance to stop it. "Let me go get him."

Crew Guy squints at him suspiciously. "Excuse me?"

"We're friends," Gerard explains, leaving out the part where maybe they actually aren't. "And your girl — Kim — is obviously busy, so let me go find him. It won't even take ten minutes."

"Gerard, is it?" Gerard nods. "I appreciate the offer, but that might be a violation of protocol. I'm sure you understand." The man smiles tensely. It doesn't reach his eyes. His walkie-talkie comes to life in his hand again and he spins on his heel, holding it up to his ear before hissing something back into it. Then he turns back to Gerard, his expression shifted into one of resignment.

"So, uh, it turns out we accidentally sent our only intern out to get coffee." Gerard raises an eyebrow at him and he flushes. In a lower voice, he pleads, "Just don't tell anyone, okay? Ten minutes."

"Ten minutes," confirms Gerard, already sliding off of his stool.

Gerard fidgets during the long ride up to floor twenty. The older woman in the elevator with him shoots him a dirty look but doesn't call him out for it.

Frank's hallway is deserted, and without even having to read the room numbers, Gerard knows which door is his. It's cracked open and noise is spilling out.

Gerard errs on the side of courtesy and knocks, but when there's no answer, he pushes the door open slowly. Across the room, Frank is sitting on the bed in his suit, his legs pulled up to his chest in a fragile way that he would never purposely let someone see. In front of him, the TV is on, playing some clips from the tour on loop. Frank doesn't tear his eyes away until Gerard steps forward and clears his throat.

"They're waiting for you downstairs whenever you're done reveling in your victory."

As soon as Frank looks at him, the teasing smile melts right off of Gerard's face. Frank's eyes are shattered, pupils as dark as the wet road. "You promised."

Gerard has to restrain himself from taking a step back. "What?"

"You promised a fair race. That's what we agreed on." Frank's voice grows stronger and he sits up straighter. "But you let me win."

"Frank, no. I didn't."

"You took your hand off the accelerator!" With an accusing finger, Frank points to the television. The last few seconds of the race are replaying. Unless someone was looking for it, Gerard is pretty sure that what he had done would be unnoticeable — but apparently not to Frank.

Gerard opens his mouth to defend himself, but it closes again before he can come up with something. Instead, he drags himself into the room to stand in front of Frank. "You're a great racer. You know that."

"Yeah, but you're _better."_ Frank's jaw clenches. "If you were going to throw it, you should've told me in Washington. You shouldn't have let me believe that I actually deserve this." His fingers brush the victor's medallion hanging like a millstone around his neck.

Gerard takes a careful step forward. "It wasn't planned."

"Right." Frank scoffs. "Because the most experienced guy in the game and the youngest ever champion's hand just _slipped."_

Gerard bites his lip, not wanting to admit to anything but also not wanting to lie. Frank looks up at him through his eyelashes. "I can't wrap my head around it, Gerard. I can't. Why would you do that?"

With a hopeless sigh, Gerard sits next to him gingerly on the bed. For a suspended moment, he says absolutely nothing, only listens to the two of them breathe. "Because I know what it's like to lose family," he confesses quietly. "And I know what it's like to drown in the guilt, to think about all the ways you could have prevented it. You reminded me of that on the Turnpike. But you don't know what it's like. I didn't want you to."

Frank doesn't say thank you. Which is fine, because Gerard wasn't expecting him to. Without a word, he lifts his medallion from around his neck and drops it to the floor. 

Gerard sighs. That was an effective dramatic gesture, sure, but they don’t have time for it. “Look, they really are waiting on you downstairs, so we should probably—”

“Let them wait,” Frank interrupts. He reaches out and traces his thumb along Gerard's jawline. Gerard’s breath catches in his throat. He isn’t so sure what’s happening anymore. 

Before he can ask, Frank leans over and kisses him softly. 

It's so unexpected, so far from who they’d been a week ago, that for a second Gerard is completely frozen. When his system finally comes back online, he presses back into it, feeling his heartbeat all the way in his lips. It’s so _good._

Gerard keeps thinking he needs to pull away and then gets sucked back into Frank, and it certainly doesn’t help when Frank wraps a hand around the back of his neck and tugs on his hair a little, deepening the kiss. It is only through incredible strength of will that Gerard finally separates himself to say, "They seriously are waiting on you, you know."

"Like I care." Frank's eyes are glued to Gerard's mouth. He leans in again, but Gerard scoots just out of range, even though he really fucking doesn’t want to.

"Later," Gerard promises. Frank gives him a look that means that he's definitely going to hold him to that.

After Frank messes with his hair in the mirror for a few minutes, Gerard finally ushers him out the door. The hallway is narrow, so Gerard walks behind him on the way to the elevator.

"Suddenly glad they make us wear suits," Gerard mumbles appreciatively. Frank makes no verbal response, but Gerard knows he heard him by the way he sways his hips a little more than necessary.

“I forgive you, by the way,” Frank says as the doors to the elevator close behind them. 

Gerard snorts. “Yeah, I figured.”

*

"Thank god. Thank _god."_ The crew member that Gerard had spoken with earlier looks between him and Frank, mouth agape. He turns to all of the other employees sharing his uniform and flails a hand in the air. "Someone get Iero backstage, good _lord._ We go live in five, seriously!"

As they hustle Frank away, Gerard feels something warm brush his hand and turns to see Frank grinning guiltily at him. It could have been an accident, Gerard reasons, wiggling his fingers. But it didn't really feel like one.

"That was definitely more than ten minutes." The man in charge, who looks like he's about to burst a blood vessel, turns on Gerard and points an accusing finger.

"No way." Gerard aims for breezy, but it sounds fake even to his own ears. “It just took some time to convince him, okay?”

Gerard reclaims his seat at the bar, even though he knows the Circuit has arranged a table with a fancy place card for him, and nods appreciatively as the bartender passes over another diet Coke. He sips it until the buzz around him turns into full-on pandemonium, then abruptly ceases as the cameras switch on and go live. Maybe it's better that he's off to the side, Gerard thinks as he looks around the room. If he were to be right in the middle, they'd probably scream at him for looking so underdressed.

A man in a suit with a purple pocket-square comes out with a younger looking lady on his arm and launches into some boring speech about the joy of America's Circuit that makes it obvious he's never raced a day in his life. Gerard tunes out, his eyes drifting to the behind-the-scenes work instead. In his opinion, the brunette woman guiding camera three steadily seems like she's much more interesting than what's-his-name up on stage.

Gerard only notices that the introductory speech is over when everyone begins clapping. He joins in half-heartedly by tapping his palm against the side of his glass.

After that comes a commercial break, during which all of the crew members freak out and shove food in their faces while the racers sit there awkwardly. Another speech follows — this one from a high up executive at the Circuit. Which means it's basically just another advertisement. He gets significantly less applause. These things had been much easier with alcohol involved, Gerard won't lie.

When the time finally comes for the big announcement, Gerard sits up straighter on his stool. It's customary to have a retired victor come back to say a few words and present the check. Thank god, because otherwise, people would be asleep in front of their televisions by now.

It shouldn't be that much of a surprise, but Gerard's eyes still widen as Billie Joe Armstrong takes the stage. He looks just the same as Gerard remembers from 2013 — maybe a little less scruffy? — as he positions himself behind the podium. A second later, he shakes his head and takes the microphone out of the stand, coming around the front of the podium to lean against it instead. He nods at the audience nonchalantly.

"Hell of a race, huh?" Gerard is pretty sure that isn't in the script they'd given Billie Joe. _That's_ why Gerard likes him so much. "I mean, that new kid, right? Jesus." He whistles lowly. "What's his name again?" He leans forward, squinting into the spotlight, before splitting into a grin. "Nah, I'm just kidding. I know the kid's name. C'mon, give me some credit."

Gerard is pretty sure that Billie Joe is looking at him, so he raises his glass and gets a finger gun in return. "I wanted to bore all of you to death with stories about what the Circuit was like back in _my_ day, but the annoying little voice in my ear keeps telling me to present the award and get off of the stage." There's a pause, during which Billie Joe stares at nothing in particular like he's listening to something. "He says his name is Steve. Everyone say hi to Steve!"

From the audience, there's an uncoordinated chorus of, "Hi, Steve."

"Steve is yelling at me now," Billie Joe announces with a shit-eating grin. "I'll be done in a second, dude, okay? I have something important to say first, and I can't do it with you talking my ear off." Another pause. "Good, thank you."

"In all seriousness," Billie Joe continues. Gerard didn't know he was capable of all-seriousness, but alright. "It's true that things have changed a lot since I first sat in this banquet hall. The Circuit has grown, racers have come and gone, and — ah, fuck, I'm getting nostalgic." Billie Joe winces as he registers that maybe he shouldn't have said the f-word on national television but then shrugs. Oh well. "The point is, things will never be the same as they used to be. Things will never be the same as they are _right now._ So from someone who's done their time to all of you who are just beginning, I ask that you take care of it. Race for the right reasons. Race because it's what gets you up in the morning and keeps you up at night."

Gerard sits and waits for the punchline, but it doesn't come. Only after Billie Joe has said thank you and the room explodes with applause does it really sink in for Gerard — things _aren't_ ever going to be the same as they were when he was a teenager. Gerard had found closure in this tour, something he'd been chasing desperately for years. Maybe that was all he needed after all.

Billie Joe clears his throat and the clapping dies down. He's smiling still, twirling the microphone in his hands. "I present to you now, racers and watchers, the victor of the Fourteenth Annual Grand Circuit Tour: Frank Iero."

Applause erupts yet again as Frank walks on stage with his hands behind his back, obviously clasped together from nerves. Even in the suit, Gerard has never seen him look so young.

With a start, Gerard realizes that something is missing. No golden medallion glints around Frank's neck. It's still on his hotel room floor, abandoned right before Frank had leaned in to kiss him. Gerard can't help but think, fondly, that maybe he left it on purpose.

"Thank you," Frank says, first to the audience and then to Billie Joe as he returns with an oversized check from the stage's side-wing. Gerard looks at the dark sharpie that proclaims one hundred thousand dollars, satisfied when not even a single pang of envy runs through him.

Gerard knows he made the right decision, even if he hadn't completely understood it at the time. And if Mikey were with him, he would say the exact same thing.

"Wow. Okay. No one tells you how bright those lights are." Frank smiles anxiously, and Gerard feels a surge of affection roll over him. Interesting. From the breast of his suit, Frank pulls out a paper and holds it up. "They wrote me a speech about how you should all use Circuit gear or whatever, but—" He unfolds it and scans a few lines before letting go and allowing it to flutter to the ground. "—I don't think I'll be using it."

Frank takes a deep breath. "This tour taught me so many things, and none of them have anything to do with racing. For me, racing is easy. It's what I've been doing all my life. What's harder are the other parts, the in-betweens. The tough decisions." He swallows visibly. "When you're the star of the biggest race in the country, it's easy to feel invincible. But I'm not. None of us are. We all need each other, and I was lucky enough to finally figure that out." Even though Frank is moving his gaze around the room, Gerard can still feel the weight of it against his chest, pinning him to his barstool.

"I'd like to dedicate this victory to Mikey Way," Frank says. All of the air leaves Gerard’s lungs. "Though I never had the privilege of meeting him, I don't doubt for a second that he could have beat every racer in this room." With that, Frank steps away from the podium, nods, and walks offstage. The entire banquet hall is frozen. Gerard doesn't think he could move if he tried.

Then someone claps, and the spell breaks. Before Gerard can process it, the whole place erupts into hoots and hollers, even though none of them get it. Gerard's feet hit the ground and start to move towards backstage of their own accord.

"Hey, crew only," a gruff voice says as Gerard tries to squeeze by. Up on the stage, someone else has taken over to say goodnight to the cameras and wrap things up neatly.

"It's important," Gerard pleads. "I'm a racer? I came in second?"

"Second is the first to lose." The guy crosses his arms. A knife is tattooed from his elbow to his wrist.

Gerard opens his mouth to fire back about what _bullshit_ that is when Frank's voice interrupts. Gerard looks over the big dude's shoulder to see him standing there and saying something about how Gerard is allowed back. "I just talked with Tim, he's totally cool with it."

"Tim?" asks Big Guy. "Who's Tim?"

Frank's mouth drops open in faux surprise. "You don't know Tim? Jesus, dude, Mike is going to _kill_ you." Then, before Big Guy has the chance to wrap his head around that, Frank grabs Gerard's arm and hauls him backstage. The guard yells and lunges for them, but doesn't follow, so Gerard figures they're in the clear.

 _"Tim?"_ Gerard mocks once they're safely out of earshot.

"What?" Frank defends. "There could be someone here named Tim. You wouldn't know."

"You're right, I wouldn't." Frank takes a sharp left and drags Gerard along with him. It reminds Gerard suddenly of being pulled off of his bike and behind the checkpoint house in D.C., and the memory makes his face heat up.

"What?" Frank asks once they finally stop at an empty side-hall filled with crates. Gerard assumes he's referring to the unbecoming red on his face.

"You don’t get to ask questions right now," Gerard says, mostly just to avoid the embarrassment. "What the hell was _that?"_

Frank's expression turns troubled. "Was that too far? If there was some line I crossed, I'm really sorry, I just thought that maybe you would—"

Gerard kisses him, and he shuts up. "I think that's the first time I've ever heard you actually say sorry."

Frank smirks. "I think that's the first time you’ve kissed me.”

Gerard grins back. "Touché."

"So you didn't mind, then?" Frank is suddenly sheepish. "It's okay if you did, just tell me."

"I didn't mind," Gerard says, meaning it. "And you were right. He would have been the best racer here. But he was too good for the Circuit."

"It's certainly not perfect." Frank toes the ground. "So, hey. Where are you going after this?"

"Uh, my hotel room?" Gerard wonders why Frank is staring at the ground.

"No, I mean." Frank breathes out audibly. "Like, _after_ after."

"Oh. I have a flight back to LA tomorrow morning." Gerard pauses. "Fuck, I hate jet lag."

"Yeah." Frank finally looks up, a tight smile on his face. "Yeah, okay. LA. Cool."

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah, fine, just. . ." Frank shakes his head and starts a different train of thought. "We should get out of here before that guy finds us. I think he could break us in half."

Gerard laughs. "You’ll have to lead the way. I'll definitely get lost."

Frank nods, stepping in front of him and maneuvering around crates. When he looks back, just for a moment, Gerard can't help but feel like he's missing something.

**MAY 23, 2020**

**NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK**

**MILE 3,355**

Gerard's Circuit-provided bag is packed, and he remembered to brush his teeth, but now he can't find his fucking room key. He could have sworn he'd left it by the sink. It had been _right there._

Debating the necessity of actually returning such an item, Gerard glances at the bedside clock and decides _fuck it,_ because if he doesn't leave right now he's definitely going to miss his flight.

He feels oddly bittersweet as he shuts the door behind him and heads for the elevator, which is crazy because he'd never liked the Circuit's hotels in the first place. Still, he can't shake the feeling as he watches the floor numbers tick down. Like he's forgotten something. Maybe he'd left his gloves? Fuck.

He's in the middle of checking out at the desk and carefully skirting around the topic of the keycard when someone calls his name. He spins on his heel, looking for the voice, to see Frank stumbling out of the elevator with a panic-stricken face.

"Thank god I caught you. Don't go to LA." Frank sounds breathless even though he'd taken the elevator. "Don't. Please."

Gerard tilts his head and squints at him. "What?"

"I'm sorry I didn't say it last night. I should have. But you can't go back."

"Frank, that's where I _live."_

"Not always," Frank says, slightly steadier now. "Come back to Jersey with me."

Dumbly, Gerard repeats, "What?"

"I'm leaving today too. Come with me. Jersey's so close to here — you don't have to stay for long, but. Don't you miss it?"

"Of course I miss it," Gerard says, surprised when his voice comes out hoarse. Behind him, the desk attendant clears her throat, and Gerard belatedly realizes that they're sort of making a scene. He steps closer to Frank so they can talk more quietly. "But my parents don't even live there anymore, Frank. I wouldn't have anywhere to stay."

Frank raises an eyebrow.

"Oh." Gerard feels his face heat up. "I mean, um, I don't want to impose or anything."

"Just say yes," Frank interrupts. "For fuck's sake, _just say yes."_

Gerard smiles in spite of himself. "LA sucks, doesn't it?"

"You bet your ass it does." Frank is grinning now, too. "Let me grab my bags, okay? We're taking the train."

"Okay." Gerard knows he sounds too excited, but Frank doesn't mention it.

*

It's only once Gerard looks out the window and sees the bleak landscape of New Jersey that nerves begin to twist in his stomach. "What if it's. . ." he says lowly to Frank, not sure how to phrase the feeling of someone wringing his heart out slowly.

"What?" Frank asks gently, like he can already tell.

"I don't know. I'm being stupid." Gerard chews on his lip. "It's just — been a while."

Frank is quiet for a moment. "You never thought you'd have to face it again, did you?"

"No," Gerard says honestly. "After a tragedy, it's hard to forgive the place where it happened, you know?"

Frank settles in closer against Gerard's side. Gerard feels his heart skip. It's nice to travel on something other than a motorcycle, where things like this are possible. "Running from something doesn't make it hurt less, just differently."

Gerard looks down at him. He's got his eyes closed, lashes resting darkly on his cheekbones, and for the first time, Gerard doesn't just see him as hot, or reckless, or sly, or irresistible. He's beautiful.

But Frank appears to be either asleep or nearly there, so Gerard keeps that thought to himself. Instead, he listens to the quiet hum of the train around them and waits for his own eyes to slide shut.

*

Gerard looks up at the one-story house in front of them, taking in the peeling paint and the screen door fluttering in the wind. His feet shuffle on the welcome mat. "I thought we were going to your place."

"We will. After this." Frank sounds a little nervous, which is still foreign to Gerard's ears. It's like he's unraveled, and now Gerard finally has the chance to look at who he really is instead of some image he'd concocted for the media. Frank reaches down between them to tangle his fingers with Gerard's and squeeze before letting go to knock on the door.

A lady with a kind face answers after a moment, and Gerard can see the resemblance instantly. It sort of knocks the breath out of him to come completely to terms with the fact that Frank is a whole person, someone with parents and a history, not just another racer.

"Frankie." Frank's mother wraps him up in a merciless hug and Gerard almost laughs at the absurdity of it all. That he's _here._ With _Frank._ "Congratulations, honey, we are _so_ proud of you. Your father and I have been watching the race this whole time. You did so well."

They pull away from each other, and her gaze flickers over to Gerard for the first time. Her smile dampens. "You brought a friend?"

"This is Gerard." Frank meets Gerard's eyes and then they both look away. Maybe they should have planned this a bit better. "You probably saw him on TV too? He's a Circuit racer."

"Well, of course." Mrs. Iero's smile is back. She gestures to Gerard's bright hair, which is particularly unruly after sleeping on the train. "You're hard to miss. Come in, will you? I know you've both had a long week."

They follow her inside. Gerard feels incredibly out of place — Frank's parents' house, _Jersey,_ it's a lot — but he distracts himself by glancing at the photos on the walls. Frank and his parents on vacation somewhere tropical when he was little, Frank all dressed up for his senior portrait. . .Frank catches Gerard's amused smirk and slaps his arm. Gerard nudges him back. A few days ago, they would have gotten into a screaming match over that alone. Weird.

"Catholic school, huh?" Gerard says under his breath.

"Why's that such a surprise?" Frank feigns offense with a hand over his heart and flutters his eyelashes like, _Me? Sin? Never._ Gerard has to choke back a laugh.

He tunes back in to hear Frank's mom saying, "We really are sorry we couldn't make it out to New York, honey, but I'm sure you understand," as she ushers them into the living room.

"Mom, I know you—" Frank begins to reassure her, but stops cold when a man in an armchair comes into view. He doesn't look angry, exactly, but Gerard has seen friendlier expressions.

"Dad." Frank nods.

"Frank." Mr. Iero nods back.

Gerard looks back and forth between them like it's a tennis match and everything but his eyes are frozen. He's starting to wonder why any of them thought this was a good idea.

"Who's this?" Frank's dad finally says in a gruff voice.

"This is Gerard Way." Frank speaks firmly in a manner that shows he's accustomed to the hostility. Gerard finds the courage to wave, then feels stupid for it. "He's the reason we have the money to dig ourselves out of this mess now. He's also the best racer I've ever competed against."

Silence weighs heavy for a moment. Then Mr. Iero sticks his hand out. Gerard steps forward to shake it, desperately hoping his palms aren't sweaty.

"You gave my son the money?" Mr. Iero asks lowly once their hands are clasped.

"Uh." Gerard looks back at Frank, but he doesn't have an answer either. "Not exactly. More like an opportunity."

As vague as it is, it seems to satisfy Frank's father, because he lets go of Gerard's hand and sits back in his chair. "Frank used to warn us before he brought guests over, you know. Back before he was a bigshot."

When Gerard turns around again, Frank's jaw is clenched. "Can I talk to you in the kitchen, Dad?"

With a reluctant nod, Mr. Iero follows his son into the other room. Gerard can hear their voices, a quick back-and-forth, but no actual words. The tension is palpable, even from a distance.

"They'll just be a minute," says Mrs. Iero, pulling Gerard down onto the couch. There's a glimmer in her eyes. "Here, Gerard, let me show you something."

*

Frank seems calmer when he and his father come back in. That is, until he sees what Mrs. Iero and Gerard are up to.

"And this is him after he snuck off with a motorcycle for the first time," Frank's mother is saying. "Oh, his father was so furious."

"Mom!" Frank rushes into the room, leaning over the couch to see what damage has been done. His face contorts into something between humiliation and exasperation. It's not his best look. "You're showing him the _scrapbooks?"_

"Well, yes." She blinks up at him. "He said he'd like to see them."

Next to her, Gerard smiles innocently. Frank glares at him, biting his tongue to hold back words he could never say in front of his mother.

She continues as if Frank were invisible. "And here's the first time he tried to do the dishes. He got bubbles on everything, even in his hair. It was _adorable."_ Gerard lets out a snort of laughter at tiny-Frank's expression in the photo. "And here—"

"Okay! I think that's more than enough of that." Frank snatches the scrapbook and carries it off. Gerard turns to protest, only to get a middle finger in response. At least Frank had waited until his mother looked away.

Mrs. Iero doesn't even seem concerned. "So, are you boys staying for dinner?"

*

"Jesus, Frank." Gerard bumps his shoulder as they walk down the Iero’s driveway. "Why didn't you tell me she can _cook?"_

Frank looks at him. "Is that not normal?"

Gerard thinks back to the meal: three courses and dessert, all homemade. Fuck, he's going to start drooling. "No," he says with feeling, "that is _not_ normal."

Frank tries to play it off, but Gerard can tell he's secretly pleased. "You're fine with walking, right? My apartment really isn't that far."

"We've been sitting on our asses for like, a week straight." Gerard grins a little, then sobers. "Actually, ah — there's somewhere I'd like to visit first, if that's okay with you."

Frank's pace slows. "Where?"

Gerard swallows visibly. "The Turnpike."

It clicks together, aided by the way Gerard’s face has gone white. "You mean where. . .?"

"Yeah. But we don't have to," Gerard says hurriedly.

"No, we can if you really want to, but." Frank looks at him like he’s a fragile thing. "Doesn't he have a grave? Wouldn't that be better?"

Gerard stares intently at the plant sprouting out of the pavement. "I don't want to look at a gravestone. I want to go to a place where he was alive. Where he was the _most_ alive."

"Yeah. Okay." Frank fumbles between them to grab Gerard's hand, even though his parents might be watching through the windows. It's a matter of priorities. Gerard looks up at him gratefully. "We can go."

*

The strangest part about it is that it's still just a road. The Turnpike has barely changed since Gerard had last seen it almost seven years ago. It's vacant — no people, no cars, no racers — but also unremarkable. Just like any other road in America. Gerard would know.

They're stood off to the side, just in case someone does happen to whiz by. The stillness is unnatural.

Frank doesn't say any sympathetic bullshit, which Gerard is thankful for. Instead, he keeps a firm hold on Gerard's hand and asks, "Where are the guys? The other racers?"

"I don't know." Gerard shrugs, because really, he doesn't. "Maybe they got shut down for good after Mikey passed. Or maybe they'll be here once it gets dark."

Frank nods.

"You know," Gerard says after a minute of them just standing there, "after it all happened, my parents didn't get a single sympathy card in the mail. No neighbors, no church friends, nothing. My mom was so upset. That's part of why they moved."

"Did you care?" Frank's voice is quiet.

Gerard shakes his head. "If I had wanted sympathy, I could have told the whole world. I was famous on the Circuit back then. But it wasn't about that. Mikey would have hated that, all those people he didn't know saying things that they didn't mean."

"He sounds like you."

"He sounds like twenty-six year old me," Gerard corrects. "Before all of this, I loved the limelight too. I wasn't very upfront about it, but you know how it is. It's hard to resist, sometimes."

"Yeah," Frank says, almost a whisper. "I really know."

Gerard looks up at the sky, suddenly, and squints at the setting sun. "I'm thinking about retiring."

Frank narrowly avoids choking on his own tongue. "Are you serious? After one year back in?"

"I mean, I haven't made any final decisions yet." Even though his whole world has revolved around motorcycles for so long, Gerard is strangely at peace. "This tour just wore on me a lot more than they did in the past. I feel like — I had to show myself that I could still do it, I had to show Mikey that I'd gotten better, but that was all. Now it's time for the next thing."

"That's. . ." Frank’s sentence drops off, but Gerard knows what he’s thinking. That he can’t be serious. That it’s stupid, maybe, to throw away so many years of skill. But also brave. "What are you even going to do? What's the next thing?"

Gerard is still watching the clouds. He pretends not to notice Frank's stare. "I'm still working on that. I know this family-owned auto store, maybe I'll do something with them. Maybe something else."

"You should coach me," Frank blurts out. It's so unexpected that Gerard actually looks at him.

"I'm only twenty, I'm going to be in this thing for awhile." Frank wrings his hands. "And you pulled a bunch of shit this past week that I could only dream of doing. You could — you could help me. We could be a team."

"A coach," Gerard says contemplatively, like he's trying the word out on his tongue. "I've never done that before. I don't really know if I'm qualified." It looks like Frank tries very hard not to roll his eyes at that. He forgets to control the rest of his face, though. "What?" Gerard asks, affronted.

"You're qualified, idiot." Frank pulls him closer. "We can do it right here, if you want. Just stay in Jersey. It doesn't have to be forever, only a few weeks, until we can figure out if this works."

Gerard's eyebrows twitch. Frank unlinks their hands and moves them up to cup Gerard's face instead. "I'd bet you'd miss Jersey," Frank murmurs. "I bet you'd miss me."

Gerard's eyes widen. "What if this isn't meant to last in the real world?"

Frank scoffs, and Gerard feels the air fan over his face. "I just introduced you to my _parents._ You've seen my baby photos and shook my dad's hand. We're practically married." As he processes his own words, his face turns a brilliant shade of red. "I mean — that's just an expression, I didn't mean — I'm not trying to—"

Gerard laughs, then closes the gap and kisses him. "You talk too much."

"Sorry." Frank grins against Gerard's mouth. He doesn't sound very sorry.

When they pull away, Frank keeps his hands in Gerard's hair, holding their gazes together. "I know you've got a lot of history with this place, but we could build something new. Stay in New Jersey. With me." His eyes flit away. "I'd fucking miss you, too."

So close like this, the seconds feel like hours. "Just for a few weeks." Gerard relents at last. "Until your couch starts to feel lumpy."

Frank's mouth curls up on one side, eyes glittering. "Oh, don't worry. You're not going to be sleeping on the couch." He kisses him again. "In fact," he murmurs, brushing his mouth over Gerard's hotly, "I don't think we'll be doing very much sleeping at all."

"Frank!"

"I meant because we'll be _training._ God." Gerard feels Frank's grin widen. "No I didn't."

When their lips meet again, Gerard finally realizes that he is completely, one hundred percent screwed.

It's definitely going to be more than a few weeks.


End file.
